


One Good, Honest Kiss

by winterkill



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Awkward Flirting, Brienne is very lonely, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Features romance novels with flowerly smut excerpts, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Gen, Hipster Westeros, Human Disaster Jaime Lannister, Insecurity, Jaime Lannister's strong little spoon energy, Minor Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Past Abuse, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Romantic Comedy, Self-Esteem Issues, Seriously they drink kombucha, Shameless Smut, Wingman Sansa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2020-10-14 02:48:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 53,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20593433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterkill/pseuds/winterkill
Summary: The sticky note Brienne finds in her bag when she sits down on the bus reads:"Just try it! You can read it behind one of your medical books to hide your shame. Or, we can read it aloud together when you get off work!"Tyrion writes romance novels under a pen name to spite Tywin. Brienne begrudgingly reads and enjoys them, thanks to Sansa's nagging. Jaime, away from Cersei for the first time in his life, figures his shit out. This includes moving in next door and trying to flirt with Brienne using scenes from Tyrion's bestseller, an erotic re-telling ofFlorian and Jonquil. Sansa assists, but her help isn't necessarily helpful.





	1. And Still Nobody Wants Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Haicrescendo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haicrescendo/gifts).

> This is a gift for haicrescendo, for her invaluable help and listening to me scream about it.
> 
> The inspiration for this went thusly: 
> 
> 1.) What other characters are like Brienne: a warrior with a soft, romantic heart?  
2.) Hmmm, Cassandra from _Dragon Age_ fits that! She reads Varric's pulpy romance novels.  
3.) Varric is a _literal_ dwarf!  
4.) Tyrion is called a dwarf, too! Not literally the same, but still!
> 
> This is certainly a crack fic, but the more I write, the more sincere it becomes as an exploration of the aimlessness one can feel in their 20s and 30s, and how it feels too late to try something new. It also features a Westeros filled with hipsters!
> 
> Title comes from Mitski's song "Nobody." 
> 
> I'm unsure how long this will be, but I have quite a backlog to post already.

The sticky note Brienne finds in her bag when she sits down on the bus reads:

_ Just try it! _

_ You can read it behind one of your medical books to hide your shame. _

_ Or, we can read it aloud together when you get off work! _

It's affixed to the cover of a book. There’s no signature, but Brienne doesn’t need to be an ace detective to discern the sender--the bubbly handwriting, and the fact that no one else has access to her bag limits the suspect list.

The cover of the paperback peeks mockingly out of her messenger bag--it features a buxom, auburn-haired maiden in the arms of a knight wearing mismatched, tarnished armor. The knight is about to kiss the maiden, who appears to be swooning quite dramatically, if the expression on her face is any indication. The title of the book, embossed on the cover in blue, reads _ Florian and Jonquil. _

“_ Ugh _ , Sansa, _ why?” _

_ Because she’s twenty and a romantic. _ Sansa Stark had been Brienne’s roommate for nearly six months. They’d met through a mutual friend, Margaery, when Sansa moved to King’s Landing for her junior year of college. Since then, Brienne’s two-bedroom apartment has become filled with Sansa’s ever-increasing collection of novels.

“I _ know _ you don’t read these for class,” Brienne asked when a corner of their small dining table became a precarious tower of books.

“We read old, dead men for class,” Sansa answered, “These I read for _ fun_.”

Sansa caught her flipping through one over coffee a couple months ago. Brienne opened directly to a smutty part; no matter what page she flipped to, it contained heavy bosoms and _ thrusting _, and other words that made her want to melt into the floor and cease to exist.

“That one’s _ good_,” Sansa’s head appeared over her shoulder, “I’ll lend it to you.”

Brienne _ knows _ what her blush looks like, a mortifying sunset under her freckles, so she covers her face with her too large hands. She’s twenty-four, and not _ completely _ without experience, but to read about the act, so _ explicitly_...

“It’s _ all _ smut!”

“Of course,” Sansa makes it sound obvious, “That’s what makes it good.”

Since then, Sansa tried on multiple occasions to get Brienne interested. Books appeared on her bedside table, in the basket next to the toilet, on her dresser. Today, Sansa made her final assault. Brienne begins work ridiculously early, so the bus is mostly empty--only a single old man dozes in the back seats.

Brienne unlocks her phone and texts Sansa a single word: _ Fine. _ She hopes, spitefully, that the text will wake her roommate up. The cover of the book hasn’t changed, Jonquil is still swooning with Florian’s arm about her waist. Real people _ definitely _don’t comport themselves like that.

_ Sansa is devious; she knows I like these silly old tales of knights and maidens_. 

Brienne keeps the book hidden in her bag, resting it on her lap, and begins reading.

* * *

Brienne nearly missed her bus stop trying to finish the chapter; all she wants the entire morning is to pick up where she left off on page forty-two. Florian just arrived in Maidenpool, spying on Jonquil and her sisters bathing. In the original tale, it’s played as an inappropriate joke, but in the book, Jonquil _ notices _ Florian’s gaze, and when all her sisters run, she _ stays_. 

Stays and..._ what_? Their eyes met, and then the bus lurched to a stop.

Autopilot carried her through three patient consultations, and by her lunch break, Brienne realizes the book _ might _ be creating a problem; it might as well be burning a hole in her bag. She eats on the rooftop garden of her building, her sandwich on one knee and the book on the other. Her back is in a corner, so Brienne _ should _ notice if anyone comes up the stairs with enough notice to stuff the book back in her bag.

_ Water runs down Jonquil’s soft curves in rivulets, glistening in the sunlight on her milky skin. She pulled the pins and ribbons out of her luxurious auburn hair, letting it cascade down her back in sun-kissed waves. Her graceful movements enticed Florian to come closer to the water’s edge. _

_ “You’re watching me,” Jonquil called out, her melodious voice carrying over the water. _

_ Florian stepped from his hiding place, “I confess that I was, my lady.” _

_ “How improper of you,” she replied, “All my sisters fled.” _

_ “Yet, you did not.” _

_ Jonquil turns, gifting Florian with the sight of her heavy breasts, water dripping over the rose-tipped buds. Florian felt desire course through him at the sight, his armor suddenly terribly constricting and weighing a million stones. _

_ “May I wash your back, my lady?” _

_ The maiden smiled coquettishly, “You may, ser.” _

In the last two minutes of her lunch break, she texts Sansa _ I hate you,_ and gets a row of hearts in response.

* * *

When Brienne gets off her bus that evening, the summer sun is still high above King’s Landing. She was lucky to get a seat. The afternoon bus was _ much _ more crowded, the first waves of commuters packed together.

As in the morning, Brienne kept the book hidden in her bag, trying to avoid lifting it up when flipping the pages. The coffee receipt she’s using to mark her place is nearly halfway through the book.

_ Are people watching me? _

Objectively, it’s not true. There’s over a million people in King’s Landing, and there’s no way that the eldery man across the aisle from gives a single fuck about what she’s reading. The woman with the two young children definitely doesn’t. Yet, when Florian unlaces the back of Jonquil’s dress, and kisses the exposed skin until he reaches the small of her back, Brienne almost closes the book with violence.

She _ doesn’t_, though--Brienne opens the book again and keeps reading, like the content is a car accident she can’t look away from. Florian might be a scoundrel hedge knight, but he’s gentle with Jonquil, and the phrasing might be too flowery and adverb heavy, but the _ feeling _ is there. There’s _ passion _under the melodramatic prose, and that’s what makes Brienne’s heart race and her cheeks flush.

And, really, no one is paying her one whit of attention; she could read the smut aloud and it would make no difference.

* * *

Sansa is home first, spread out on the sofa in leggings and a tank top, finger skimming over her phone screen. She puts it on the couch next to her when Brienne unlocks the door.

“I picked a good one, didn’t I?”

Brienne’s glare is typically mulish, “I _ hate _ you.”

Sansa giggles, “You said that already, Brienne.”

“That was low of you, picking one about...knights and maidens.”

“Not low,” Sansa’s grin is diabolical, “_ Tactical_.”

“I’m glad I amuse you so.”

"But you enjoyed it." Brienne is being _told_ that, not asked, which, she's learned, is just Sansa's way. 

"It was...romantic," Brienne looks above Sansa's head to avoid her knowing grin, "And, quite... explicit."

"Those _ are _ appropriate adjectives, yes."

"Were you expecting a literary analysis?" It comes off more irritated than Brienne intends.

"Ew, no," she wrinkles her nose, "Keep that out of my smug indulgence reading."

Sansa's a _ good _roommate, reasonably clean and doesn't bring strange people over at odd hours. More than that, Sansa proved herself a friend, even to Brienne’s awkward, homely self. Brienne wants to take an interest in what Sansa likes.

"I'll...finish it," she replies, "...Today, probably."

_Alone. In bed._ _As usual._

Sansa rises from the couch and stretches, grinning, “Pizza time. What kind do you want?”

“...Something with vegetables.”

"That's the _ opposite _ of pizza, Brienne."

* * *

Nine on a Friday night, and Brienne is in her room, curled up under her blue duvet. “It matches your eyes,” her father told her after buying it when she moved into the apartment. He purchased her mattress, too, and the curtains, until Brienne pushed him out of the store exclaiming that she was an adult.

Sansa hadn’t gone out, either, and surely she could have, with either Margaery or her sister Arya, who just started college this year. Brienne goes with them, sometimes, but feels lumbering and unsociable around them. Arya’s repeated, but clearly impressed, “You could beat the shit out of _ any _man” doesn’t make Brienne feel better

She doesn’t want to beat the shit out of a man, she _ wants_\--

The cover of _ Florian and Jonquil _ is unchanged since her last look; Jonquil is still swooning in her low cut dress. Florian’s taken it off of her several times by now. Sometimes, he rips it from her in passionate fervor, and other times he divests Jonquil of it slowly, piece by piece. Brienne, in the absolute solitude of her mind, doesn’t know which one she prefers. 

_ Both _ give her a feeling like looking over the edge of the cliffs at Tarth.

Maybe she’ll wait until she completes the book before ranking the scenes. _ It’s probably silly to rank them in such a qualitative manner. _It’s smut, not a case study, but she doesn’t usually read fiction, and she hasn’t been blessed with an imaginative mind. For now, Brienne keeps reading.

_ Desire coursed through Jonquil, pooling in a hot rush between her thighs. Florian had taken her many times by now, yet each felt like the first. She’s naked before him, bathed in candlelight. Florian gave her a searing kiss before pushing her down onto the bed. He’s a gentle man, a fool, but the roughness in his touch, even feigned, made her inner petals wet with dew. _

_ “You’ve been bad, my lady,” Florian grinned at her rakishly, “Tempting me all through dinner.” _

_ Jonquil blinked at him with her innocent brown orbs, “Have I, ser? I wouldn’t even know where to begin.” _

_ Florian came to her, climbed onto the bedstead and devoured her with his eyes, and Jonquil wilted like the flower that is her namesake. _

Her phone tells her it’s nearly midnight when Brienne closes the back cover of the book, tossing it onto the bed. Sansa will ask her, tomorrow, what she thought of the climax of the narrative. Sansa will use the word _ climax_, too, probably accompanied by a dramatic wink.

_ It made me feel lonely_.

Sansa doesn’t need to know that. It would hurt her, that something meant to entertain Brienne had a detrimental effect. And it’s not that she _ wasn’t _entertained, or aroused, or the other feelings a novel like that should engender. 

No, it had done all those things; it’s just that the novel was fantasy, wish-fulfillment, and that’s a lonesome line of thought when the wish won't come true. Brienne’s not jealous of Sansa’s beauty, those feelings are long past now that she’s a grown woman, but it doesn’t change the fact that Sansa could easily imagine herself in Jonquil’s place. Someone would think of her, touch her, like Florian does, and Brienne doesn’t think such a person exists in her world.

There was only a few short months with Hyle Hunt, who wasn’t cruel to her, but when he touched her, Brienne felt nothing other than a relieved feeling that _ finally _ someone had.

It’d be easier, Brienne thinks as she tries to fall asleep, if it were _ just _ about sex.

* * *

Brienne’s favorite kind of Saturday is one where no one asks anything of her. She sleeps in _ just _late enough that she doesn’t feel guilty, then eats pancakes with Sansa, who douses hers with enough maple syrup and whipped cream that Brienne feels vaguely nauseated

Sansa _ does _ ask about the book. Brienne tells her a half-truth, and Sansa grins and promises and even _ better _ book. Worse, Brienne will _ definitely _ read it. _ Florian and Jonquil _opened a horrible, horrible door.

“I’m gonna go for a run,” she tells Sansa after they’ve done the dishes.

“After pancakes?”

Sansa has a point, but Brienne feels restless enough to risk it. “It’ll be fine.”

So, Brienne runs--around the block, to the nearby park, and back again, She runs until she’s not thinking of anything except the footfalls of her feet against the pavement. The sound has almost a meditative quality, and the moment where instinct kicks in is the best part. Brienne feels like she could run endlessly, eastward until she hits Shipbreaker Bay, the green hills of Tarth just visible from the shore.

Of course, the pancakes are a lead weight in her stomach, and Brienne never remembers that the furthest point of a run is only halfway. She flops on a bench and lifts her sweat-damp hair off her neck, wishing for water and a hair tie.

By the time she gets back to the apartment, she’s less stir crazy, but feels wretched as a trade off.

“Was that a good decision?” Sansa calls out from her bedroom.

“No,” Brienne answers as she turns on the tap and pours herself a glass of water. “I’m gonna go shower.”

“Come here first,” Sansa calls back, “We’re getting a neighbor.”

“Sansa Stark, are you _ spying_?”

“No, my Old Nan _ spies_. Looking out my bedroom window isn’t spying.”

Brienne _ is _curious; the unit next door has been empty since they moved in. The place is small, six apartments in a building nearly a century old. Brienne spent the winter kicking the radiator and being grateful King’s Landing has a mild climate. And, thankfully, no one has witnessed the debacle of her trying to fit in the claw-foot tub. She’d climbed in it, clothed, to show Sansa, who laughed until tears streamed down her face and she gave Brienne the bathroom with the shower.

The shower head was _ still _ too short, but it was _ better_.

“There’s a moving van,” Sansa tells her when Brienne peers out the window over her head.

“I can see that,” Brienne replies. The van is nondescript and tells her nothing about their new neighbor. “They own belongings. We’re wonderful detectives, Sansa.”

“_Haha_.”

“There’s a new car, too,” Brienne points to the sports car at the curb. “Black, and _ nice_.”

“So the mystery tenant has money.”

_ Money and choosing to live in _ this _ building? _Then again, Sansa came from old money, too, and lived here. Tarth had long since lost whatever minor fortune it held, not that it was a major player even when Westeros was controlled by the dynasties of old houses.

The car’s engine is running, but the windows are tinted dark, obscuring Brienne’s view. Then, the door opens and a man steps out. Brienne only sees golden hair, sparkling enough in the sun that it pulls her gaze toward it. It’s the only detail that stands out to her from three stories high.

“Princess hair.”

Brienne looks down at Sansa, “_ What?” _

“Golden curls, long--our new tenant has princess hair.”

“_What _does that even mean?”

Sansa rolls her eyes, “It means what I just said.”

Sometimes, Sansa makes Brienne feel _ ancient_\--it’s in her slang, and her cultural references, and her strange analogies. They’re only four years apart, though, so maybe it’s that Brienne has never been trendy, or that Sansa is just Sansa.

She’s about to ask for clarification when Sansa lifts the window, the track sticking due to age and too many layers of paint. It makes a screeching noise, but Sansa is surprisingly strong, and the window catches, staying aloft.

Then, Sansa’s sticking her head out the window, auburn ponytail fluttering in the summer breeze.

“Sansa, what are you--?”

“Hey, new dude!”

The “new dude,” as Sansa so blithely called him, turns his head wildly, searching for the sound.

“Above you!” Sansa calls again, and this time the man identifies the location of her voice.

“Hi?”

Something about the tenor of his voice makes Brienne flush, a stupid reaction she can’t explain. He’s going to look up to the window, and see beautiful Sansa, and _ her _, with her hair stuck to her head from sweat and wearing her old gym clothes. Brienne slides out of view of the window.

“We’re your neighbors,” Sansa continues, “You’re moving up here, right?”

The man scratches his head, “I...think?” A pause. “Yes, 301.”

Sansa shakes her head, “302. We’re 301.”

“301, then.”

“Do you have a name?” 

He looks up, and Brienne sees him clearly for the first time--even thirty feet below, she can’t miss the way his jeans fit, or the self-assured smile he’s giving Sansa. It will be worse up close, she’s certain. 

“Jaime--” he starts, cuts himself off and shakes his head, “...Lannister.”

_ That _name means something, here in King’s Landing, and all over Westeros. The Lannisters have their hands in every industry Brienne can think of. They’re one of the few old houses that persisted, undiminished by time.

“I’m Sansa!” she grabs Brienne’s forearm to pull her into better view; it doesn’t work. “And my stubborn roommate hiding behind the wall is Brienne.”

Jaime waves at them, a haphazard gesture, and Sansa turns to Brienne, lowering her voice.

“Our new neighbor a legit snack. And _ rich_. Why in the seven hells would he move _ here_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa channels her inner Eleanor from _The Good Place_ at the end there.
> 
> Please tell me what you think of this ridiculous premise ahahahaha. Next time, we get Jaime's thoughts.


	2. Open the Window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You’ll come crawling here, begging me to take you back,” Cersei sneers at him, “I give you six months.”_
> 
> _Jaime thinks Cersei and their father underestimate the motivation he finds in being spiteful._ Prove them wrong,_ he tells himself as he walks out of Cersei’s apartment for the last time._ Do what you want, and prove them wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT, GUYS. I honestly thought this premise was too ridiculous for anyone to enjoy. Thank you for the enthusiasm!
> 
> I also just wanna say that I spent nearly an _hour_ looking at a map of King's Landing thinking, over and over "where would the hipsters gentrify first?" 
> 
> Enjoy Jaime and his...mess of a life, I guess?

“You’ll come crawling here, begging me to take you back,” Cersei sneers at him, “I give you six months.”

Jaime thinks Cersei _ and _ their father underestimate the motivation he finds in being spiteful. _ Prove them wrong_, he tells himself as he walks out of Cersei’s apartment for the last time. _ Do what you want, and prove them wrong_.

Jaime’s own apartment, perched atop a highrise on Rhaenys's Hill near Old Gate, is the first asset he divests himself of. It sells for an amount of gold dragons with enough zeros that the total is meaningless to Jaime. The number of zeros at the end of _ any _ amount of money meant nothing to him until he started taking stock of what money was actually _ his_, and not just what he could access by being a pawn on his father’s corporate chess board.

The amount is...less than impressive, for a Lannister, at least. Just the salary he’d earned, the money from the sale of his apartment, and a small fund Tytos Lannister set up for his grandchildren that Jaime has limited power to draw from. There’s still _ a lot _of zeros and the end of the sum, but with nothing coming in, Jaime will have to watch what he spends for the first time in his thirty-five years of life.

You’re not a man of vice, at least,” Tyrion tells him when Jaime shows up at his door with two suitcases, “So you won’t burn through your money on women and drink.”

“I’ll need your expert advice on living in defiance of Tywin Lannister.”

“Speaking of drinks,” Tyrion goes to the wet bar in his living room and pours two fingers of _ something _Jaime doesn’t catch the label of. When the drink is in Jaime’s hand, Tyrion raises his own glass. “To joining me in a life of exile, brother dearest.”

Jaime can raise a fucking glass to that, so he does.

* * *

Cersei hated him with a beard, said it reminded her of Robert’s. Well, Jaime didn’t like it when she fucked other people behind his back, so the first thing he does when he leaves is stop shaving. After two months, Tyrion shoves an electric razor in his face and promises to use it in Jaime’s sleep if he doesn’t do _ something._

“I’m going through my hobo phase; it’s the teenage rebellion that I missed out on.”

Tyrion raises both eyebrows, “Wasn’t Cersei rebellion enough? How can you top that?”

Jaime doesn’t like hearing about Cersei, not after he’d walked out, but he keeps it to himself. “This is...a more garden-variety rebellion.”

“Well, I understand the power of spite, but be reasonable,” his brother brandishes the razor again, “You don't have to be rid of it, but trim it, for fuck's sake. Spare those of us who have to suffer to look at you.”

“Ugh. _ Fine_.”

So, he lets the hair on his head grow instead; his father would _ hate _ that.

* * *

“You’ll need a job.” Tyrion is ever the pragmatist. “Don’t discount the industries that Father’s ire will have barred you from.”

“I don’t want to work in a fucking office anyway.”

“Yes,” Tyrion chuckles, “but Father’s so influential that you may end up making organic smoothies for college students.”

“I’ll manage,” Jaime answers. He wasn’t sure _ how_, but he would.

And he _ does _ manage, but it makes him sore that he needs Tyrion’s help to do so. What is he, really, without his Lannister name? What could he accomplish without an opportunity given to him by his father? 

The answer, at least at first, feels like _ nothing_. 

Tyrion, whose social net is cast far wider than Jaime’s own, knows a guy who knows another guy, and Jaime ends up pouring craft beer from taps at Blackwater Brewery in Flea Bottom. The owner is a guy named Bronn; Tyrion refuses to disclose how they’re in acquaintance, but Jaime suspects it involves women, alcohol, or both.

Twenty years ago, Flea Bottom was a place a man would go to get stabbed, where all the City Watch officers patrolling the neighborhood were crooked. Now, the neighborhood is lined with renovated buildings housing boutiques, cafes, and more places to drink than one could possibly stagger between in a bar crawl.

_Gods, I’m fucking ancient_.

Bronn looks like a man Tyrion would befriend, and a man Tywin would hate. Every other word he utters is profanity. He dresses mostly in black and always seems to have a different twenty-something woman on his arm. Jaime warms to him immediately; that is, at least, until Bronn speaks to him.

“You look like a rich cunt.”

“You know Tyrion,” Jaime exclaims, “I put my _ name _ on the application.”

“Yeah, but Tyrion’s cool,” Bronn shrugs, “and _ you _ look like a cunt.”

“Fine, I’m a rich cunt, then.”

Everything Jaime ever did in the service of his father was _ utterly _ demoralizing. Cersei loved the corporate power struggle, the politics and scheming. She thrived on the authority of her position, of her name, while all it did was make Jaime’s feel like the life was being leached out of him. He lacked the aptitude for anything his father asked, too--Tywin was fine with that, as long as Jaime could be paraded around as the firstborn son.

Tyrion was clever to suggest the job; Tywin will _ never _ find him here--a place like this is so far beneath a Lannister that his father wouldn’t even deign to _ look_. Despite what Bronn may think, after a month, he can’t deny that customers come to talk to Jaime. 

“A charismatic, rich cunt, then,” Bronn tells him as Jaime counts his tips at the end of a Friday night.

“A charismatic cunt that’s good for your business.” He knows how smug he sounds, but he just doesn’t care. 

Bronn howled with laughter, “Keep growing your hair, get some flannel, and you’ll fit right the fuck in.”

His hair nearly touches the collar of his shirt, and it fills him with _ glee _how utterly unpresentable he must look. 

The clientele are all young. Cersei would turn her nose at most of them, calling them _ commoner upstarts_, but Jaime finds he prefers talking to normal people over anyone his family socializes with. If Bronn _ really _ wants to meet some rich cunts, he should come to a Lannister dinner party. 

Jaime’s always been a fast talker, and chatting with customers all night comes easily to him. It’s even gratifying, in a way, because he hasn’t felt _ good _ at anything in a long time. There’s women, maybe, who would come home with him if he tried, but the thought of anyone other than Cersei is still unimaginable, so he never pursues it.

Tyrion would shit himself if Jaime brought someone home, anyway.

Jaime crashes in Tyrion’s guest room for eight months. His brother would never kick him out, but they start snipping at each other over stupid shit, like the way Jaime places dishes on the drying rack, and what way the blinds should be turned in order to best block the sunlight. They never argued as children, that was always Tyrion and Cersei, and Jaime’s isn’t too keen on pissing off the one family member he talks to and _ actually _ likes.

Tyrion was typing furiously on his laptop, but looked up when Jaime knocked on the doorframe.

“I’ll look for an apartment.”

“I love you, but thank the fucking gods,” Tyrion replies, “I’ll help you look.”

* * *

Jaime doesn’t even tour the place before he signs the lease--it’s off the Street of the Sisters, the pictures on the internet look fine enough, and the rent is something he can manage without dipping into his savings. He already pulled it all and moved it to a new bank, just in case his father tries to pull some strings. 

It seemed less paranoid than cashing the sum and shoving it under his mattress. Actually, his mattress isn’t even coming for two more days.

At worst, he’ll be surrounded by veritable children and feel like a washed up old man. That feeling is old hat to Jaime by now--he makes jokes about it daily. His co-worker, Gendry, a _ literal infant _ at twenty-one, started calling him _ gramps_, and there’s little point in correcting him or anyone else.

The first neighbor he meets _ has _ to be a college student; Sansa knocks on the door-- _ his _ door, barely an hour after the movers leave his meager possessions in a heap in the living room. Maybe selling his apartment furnished was a mistake; then again, that posh, modern shit would look ridiculous here.

“...Sansa?” Jaime repeats her name slowly, worried he’d forgotten it already.

She holds a canvas bag out to him. “Yep. I brought you toilet paper. No one thinks to bring that when they move, and you _ never _ remember until you’re-- _ you know_. Then you’re texting a friend, and it’s _ mortifying_.”

_Is that a personal anecdote? _Not that he’s going to ask her. Jaime takes the bag, “Thanks. Neighbors don’t really...introduce themselves much anymore.” At least they never did at his old place--just shiny white doors that hid complete strangers.

“It’s about building community,” Sansa replies, like it’s an obvious notion. “There’s a bottle of water and some organic energy bars in there, too. Those were Brienne’s idea. She’s healthy, so they probably taste like sand.”

_Brienne’s the one who hid out of sight of the window. _ Jaime tries to imagine her, but there’s nothing to go on, other than she’s clearly friends with Sansa and likes health food. Everyone in Flea Bottom swore by chia seeds and drank that weird fermented tea that made him vomit in his mouth.

“Tell Brienne thank you, too.”

“Cool! I will.”

Sansa leaves, and Jaime sits on a box and looks around his new home. Cersei would call it an unlivable hovel, with its worn wooden floors and appliances that might be the oldest thing in the building, present company included.

_I’m not Cersei_, Jaime thinks, then aloud, he repeats it. He hasn’t seen her since the day he walked out, and her opinion on where he lives doesn’t fucking matter.

Sansa or Brienne must turn on a tap or a shower, and the pipes in their shared wall groan in protest. Something about it makes him laugh. Jaime opens the bottle of water and one of the energy bars.

Sansa was right--it _ absolutely _ tastes like sand.

* * *

When Cersei and he were children, they were indistinguishable from one another. Tywin isn't the type to display family pictures on the wall, but their mother had been. There are albums of the two of them as babies, golden-curled cherubs that Jaime can't tell tell apart. Mother always could, but even Tywin would get confused if they swapped clothes.

Cersei _ liked _it, their sameness, and it wasn't until Jaime severed their connection that he realized how much of his life he let her decide unilaterally. She wanted him to work for their father, so Jaime did; she liked his suits cut a certain way, so that's what he wore. The suits are gone, save one (just in case). Someone made one hell of a designer find at a thrift store.

Jaime notices it most acutely when picking out a fucking bedspread--of course, Cersei isn't with him, and Jaime chooses red because of the fucking Lannister family crest. Would he pick that color on his own? 

His inability to tell what he wants from what he's been _ told _ is for him is a repeated frustration. 

So, Jaime looks at his reflection every morning, notices more than one gray hair. The longer his hair grows, the more it reminds him if Cersei's. He caught her appearance in a magazine, and she looks just as he left her. She's beautiful, if nothing else, with her fine bone structure and green eyes. 

The beard helps. Jaime tries to tell himself he's more than a pale shade of Cersei, more than a moon caught in her orbit. It sounds like something he should write on a sticky note and attach to his mirror. 

He'd mock a person for doing that, so he resists.

* * *

Sansa waves at him three times in the first few days he’s their neighbor, and smiles brightly each time.

“Do you use social media?” She asks when they meet in the stairway. “I can follow you.” Then, she rattles off a list of platforms Jaime only knows because the promotional materials for Blackwater Brewery list them. They have a signboard decorated with brightly-colored chalk, asking for likes, or hearts, or claps, or some other ridiculous noun. 

Sansa asks the question like Jaime’s _ not _older than the mythical dragon bones found in archeological digs.

“I’m a fossil,” he replies.

Sansa rolls her eyes dramatically, and Jaime ages another five years in the wake of the gesture. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-five.” He answers like Sansa’s accusing him of something.

“_Please_. Thirty is the new twenty.”

A child _ would _say that. 

Then, Sansa hops down the stairs to what Jaime can only assume is class.

* * *

Brienne proves more elusive. Jaime finds himself cobbling together an impression of her from Sansa’s offhand comments. She works early in the morning; she tells Sansa to watch her sugar intake; she fixed their toilet; she runs until Sansa collapses on a bench in anguish and waits for her to circle back.

Jaime spots her, though, on the fifth day, much like Sansa and Brienne must have first seen him--from the window. Brienne is tall, although _ how _ tall he can’t discern, and her hair is blonde, so light it nearly appears white in the morning sun. He watches her until she turns the corner at the end of the block, then goes back to determining how to best fit a stack of skillets in the cabinet. He tries to ignore the fact that he can’t cook anything in them.

The first time Jaime sees Brienne in earnest, he’s dragging an end table from the trunk of his car to the entrance of the building. The thing barely fit; a car never needed to be practical for him. An employee at the store helped him load it into his trunk, but, like the fool he is, Jaime thought he could easily take it up three flights of stairs.

Well, it’s six feet behind the back of his car, sitting on the pavement. 

He stares at the thing and crosses his arms petulantly. _ This is how normal people get shit into their houses. Only they ask friends for help_.

“Do you need help?”

It’s definitely Brienne asking the question; she’s leaning against the door and looking between him and the end table. Jaime gets his first good, honest look at her, and...well, she isn’t pretty--her face is too broad, every inch covered in freckles. She’s _ tall_, taller than him by surely an inch or two, and broader. She looks like a rugby team could run at her, full tilt, and not knock her over.

“I...do,” Jaime says, utterly lame because he just noticed her fucking _ eyes._ The blue of them makes up for the entire rest of his image of her, like the lynchpin holding a set of incongruent features together into some sort of harmony. “...Please.”

Brienne raises her pale eyebrows; he must have a strange expression on his face. “...Sure. You’re Jaime. Sansa keeps telling me to come and introduce myself. I’m Brienne.”

“You’re doing it now,’ he blurts, holding out his hand to her. “Were you about to go running?”

Brienne’s wearing gym clothes, leggings and a tank top from some event Jaime doesn’t recognize. She shakes his hand firmly, but pulls away as quickly as seems polite. “I was, but I can help.”

Jaime means to help her--the furniture isn’t that heavy, but the awkward size of it is the real issue, and Brienne _ is _ a woman. Maybe accepting her help was impolite in the first place. Brienne picks the table up, though, the top of it against her chest, legs pointing outward. She lifts it like it’s made of fucking cardboard and looks like she could sprint down the street for the effort it seems to take.

“Can you hold the door?”

He does, and watches the muscles in her back shift as she maneuvers the table through the doorway, then stares at her as she starts the ascent to the third floor. _ She didn’t even ask me for help_.

And, something about the entire scene, and Brienne’s eyes, makes Jaime’s cock decide it wants to take notice. _ Not that it matters, but I’ve been away from Cersei for too long. _

* * *

“We’re eating pizza, if you want some.”

Brienne sounds like she’d rather endure an invasive medical procedure than invite Jaime into her home, but she’s standing behind Sansa when Jaime opens his door.

“I managed to keep _ all _ the vegetables off it this week!”

“Is that...a regular issue?” Pizza arrived how one ordered it, unless Jaime missed something in his extremely privileged upbringing. If Tywin Lannister ordered pizza, which he _ never _ would, and it ended up _ not _ the way he ordered it...

“When Brienne places the order, yeah. It’ll end up with roasted brussel sprouts or something.”

“I made a salad,” Brienne sounds offended, “To offset the carbs.”

“I’ll come.” There’s a coffee shop in Flea Bottom that has _ say yes more _ painted on the wall; Jaime doesn’t think it’s bad advice. “I can’t cook for shit,” he admits.

“I _ knew _ it,” Sansa says, “Rich boy can’t boil water.”

“You’re a Stark,” Jaime protests, “That’s old money, too.”

“Not as much as _ you_,” Sansa quips in return, “And in the frigid North we do things ourselves.”

Brienne rolls her eyes and turns back to her door, “I’m going to eat all the pizza.” 

Sansa mouths _ she won’t_, and peeks her head in Jaime’s door, “Are you _ really _Jaime Lannister?”

“...Yes.”

“You don’t live like the heir to House Lannister; you don’t even have a couch.” 

No, he has an armchair; the couch is on order.

“I’m...living in exile.”

“Wanna regale us with that tale over pizza?”

“Not really, no.”

“Fine. Keep your secrets.” Sansa looks around again, spots his bookshelf with the lone book on it---a signed copy of _ Florian and Jonquil _ that Tyrion put in his suitcase as a jape. _ For your new bachelor life_, he’d inscribed on the inside of the front cover, as though Jaime would find comfort in his cold, lonely bed in lurid smut written by his _ brother_.

Oh, gods, _ Cersei_; he’d never thought about it _ that _ way. The joke is even _ worse _ now, and so, so Tyrion-like.

Hopefully, Sansa’s eyes will move on. She gasps, though, and Jaime knows the game is lost.

“Jaime, is that _ Florian and Jonquil_?” she screeches.

“...Yes.”

“Have you _ read _it?” 

“...No.”

“But you _ want _to?’

“...No.”

“Then _ why_\--”

Jaime sighs and runs his hand over his face. “My brother wrote it, and he has a certain sense of humor.”

Sansa gapes at him, “You _ know _ Tysha? And wait, the author of _ Florian and Jonquil _ is a _ man_?”

_Sorry, Tyrion. _ “Please don’t tell; the secret of it is part of his fun.” The biggest part of Tyrion’s fun was making the sex as melodramatic as possible, and cackling when the next book sold more for his efforts.

“You should read it,” Sansa grins.

“...Do you want to read porn written by your _ brother_, that’s surely influenced by his exploits?”

She pulls a face. “When you put it that way…”

“Exactly.”

“You know, though,” Sansa’s expression shifts to a mischievous grin, “She might not look it, but Brienne _ loves _ romance novels.”

* * *

After he’s stuffed with pizza and back in his apartment, Jaime takes _ Florian and Jonquil _ and sits on the edge of his bed. He’s not sure what he’s doing--what he told Sansa earlier held true. He thinks of Brienne reading the book, and how little he knows of her, and that’s what makes him read. Jaime’s certain he hasn’t finished a book since being forced to in school. He used to struggle over the letters, until his father hired a private tutor rather than suffer the indignity of his son needing extra help _ in _school.

Now, he’s just painfully slow.

Thinking plot _ isn’t _ why people are buying the book en masse, he opens to a random page.

_Florian grips Jonquil’s hips with his calloused fingers, thrusting into her wet sheath with abandon. She writhes on the bed beneath him, arching her back in time with his movements. Each time his manhood reaches the deepest place within her, Jonquil moans her pleasure, her cries muffled into the pillow. _

_“Cry out for me, my lady,” Florian leans over her and whispers into her hair, “Let me hear what I do to you.” _

“Seven hells, Tyrion.” Jaime nearly starts cackling with laughter, would if it wouldn’t send Brienne and Sansa to his door, wondering why he’d lost his fucking mind less than an hour after saying good night to them. He’d also have to admit to Sansa that he read the book.

Jaime finishes the scene, and ignoring that _ Tyrion _ wrote it, it generates a strange ache in his chest. It’s not reading about fucking--he’s had plenty of sex; it’s the way Florian always sounds _ romantic_, no matter how filthy the utterance. It’s the way he holds Jonquil afterward, and wakes up with her the next morning. There’s a tenderness to the series of events, and it makes Jaime realize that he’s never, _ ever _known that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought long and hard about Tyrion's pen name. Let's just say that Tysha was someone he loved that Tywin didn't approve of, and leave out the...rest of the story.
> 
> Also, Jaime reads like he's extracted himself from a domestic violence situation, which I think works.


	3. The Way I Can't Be Without You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Brienne’s seen Jaime Lannister before--everyone in King’s Landing who doesn’t live under a rock has seen Jaime Lannister. He’s featured on lists about King's Landing's most eligible bachelors, or best-dressed, or other things Brienne doesn’t pay attention to._
> 
> That _Jaime wears custom designer suits and lives in some highrise. He’s clean-shaven, handsome to the point of ridiculousness. He’s famously aloof and flippant, and has little regard for the feelings of others._
> 
> _Her next door neighbor Jaime Lannister is an entirely different human. Neighbor Jaime sets off the smoke detector trying to make a grilled cheese and uses his smartphone to look up how to operate a coin laundry. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW GUYS. Once again, I am AMAZED by the response this has gotten. Thank you for all the reviews and kudos! I am having such fun writing this.

Brienne’s seen Jaime Lannister before--_everyone _ in King’s Landing who doesn’t live under a rock has seen Jaime Lannister. He’s not a celebrity, not like his sister, but he appears at her side frequently enough at galas and events. He’s featured on lists about King's Landing's most eligible bachelors, or best-dressed, or other things Brienne doesn’t pay attention to.

_ That _Jaime wears custom designer suits and lives in some highrise. He’s clean-shaven, handsome to the point of ridiculousness. He’s famously aloof and flippant, and has little regard for the feelings of others.

Her next door neighbor Jaime Lannister is an entirely different human. So much so that Brienne surmises he’s a clone. Maybe Sansa has a romance novel that fits _ that _ scheme. Neighbor Jaime sets off the smoke detector trying to make a grilled cheese and uses his smartphone to look up how to operate a coin laundry. 

“_Why _ is he here?” Brienne whispers to Sansa when she gets back from class.

“There are worse things to see when someone knocks on your door asking if you have a spatula.”

“He doesn’t own a _ spatula_, Sansa,” Brienne replies, “Who loosed that manchild into the world?”

“Jaime told me he’s living in exile,” Sansa replies.

“What does that even _ mean_?” Brienne goes to the sink and starts aggressively scrubbing the dishes from breakfast. “Who uses language like that anymore? Is he some fabled hero who’s been banished for his misdeeds?”

“He’s handsome enough,” Sansa sits at the table, resting her chin in her hand, and sighs. “Can’t you see him on the cover of some novel, in shining gold armor…”

As Sansa keeps reminding her, neighbor Jaime looks like a golden god. Brienne gets anxious sitting across from him eating dinner, like if she looks at him, she’s going to go blind from his sheer beauty, or that the gods will punish someone as unfortunate as her for sharing his space.

Brienne’s on her third romance novel, and the flowery descriptions are creeping into her inner voice. She hopes they halt their advance there.

“Why don’t you go tell him that, then?” Immediately, Brienne realizes how defensive she sounds, and she can’t even identify _ why_.

“Woah, no need to sound pissed off.”

Brienne turns from the sink and looks at Sansa, “Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“I think he’s going through some shit,” Sansa looks over at their shared wall, “You should try talking to him.”

* * *

“Can I run with you?” 

Brienne looks upward to Jaime sticking his head out the window. She wearing her leggings and another grubby shirt from the bottom of her dresser. Why are workout clothes so close to pajamas? Margaery’s always posting workout selfies, and she looks like a model, skin glistening with sweat and holding some green smoothie. 

When Brienne sweats, she looks like a giant drowned rat.

Nevertheless, she hears herself say, “Sure?”

Running is her thinking time, but she can spare a morning of it. Then, it occurs to her that Jaime will see her in her drowned rat state. Jaime probably sweats like Margaery.

Well, it’s too late now, and Brienne can’t get uglier.

“Great! I’ll be right down.”

She’s unsure what to expect when Jaime appears on the sidewalk. He’s wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, and looks...well, _ normal_. Normal for neighbor Jaime Lannister, at least. For magazine Jaime Lannister, he looks like he slept on a park bench.

“Good morning,” she says awkwardly.

“Thanks for letting me tag along,” Jaime smiles, and Brienne’s heart does a jaunty step. “How far do you usually go?”

“Um...it depends. I just kinda...go.” _ Ugh. So lame. _

Jaime doesn’t seem to notice, he just follows Brienne when she starts down the block. She turns the corner and heads in her usual route. The pleasant thoughtlessness of running is about to kick in when Jaime starts asking her questions.

“You’re from Tarth, right?”

Brienne grunts an affirmative response.

“Is everyone from Tarth as big as you?”

_ Big_. She winces at the adjective, but Jaime is two paces behind her, so he won’t see. The words that will come next are laid before her like familiar stepping stones. _ Ugly. Mannish. Freaky_. Every bully from childhood repeating the litany of them in her mind. 

“Tarth is an entire island,” she tries to keep her voice level, “Do you think I’ve done a study to determine if people born there are prone to being taller?”

“...Um.”

There’s another patch of silence. _ Maybe that killed it_. It didn’t, though--Jaime launches a barrage of personal questions. _ How tall are you? How much can you lift? I bet you could pick me up if you tried. _

Spitefully, she picks up her pace, running across an empty intersection as the walk signal counts down to zero. Jaime _ should _wait, which will give her a second to comport herself. It doesn’t work, though--Jaime barrels across the intersection after the light turns green. There’s a car in the distance, not close, but Brienne panics just a bit.

“The light was red!” she scolds when he’s on the curb next to her. So much for getting ahead.

“You left me!”

Jaime’s tone makes Brienne think he took her running off as a personal attack. 

“You’re asking me weird questions!”

“I was just trying to get to know you.” Jaime bends forward, resting his hands on his thighs as he catches his breath.

“By telling me I’m big for a woman? I _ know _ I’m unsightly, and mannish, and---I see it in the mirror everyday.”

As Brienne leaves him there, running in the opposite direction of her normal route, just to get away, she thinks she hears Jaime say, “...I didn’t say _ any _ of that!”

* * *

Brienne wakes early the next morning, Sunday, to ensure she can complete her run without Jaime trailing behind asking her questions that make her self conscious. 

As soon as she turns the key in her front door, though, the one next door opens up. The top of Jaime's golden, wavy head appears. 

_ Of course he heard; the walls are old and thin. _

"What do you want?" She doesn't try to mask her crossness.

"Can I come with you again?"

_ No_, she thinks. "If you stay _ silent_," she says.

Jaime brightens, and closes the door behind him. _ He was waiting for me? _

“Did you...work last night?” Brienne asks when they’re downstairs. “I heard your door open, and it had to be after midnight.” Jaime works at a..bar? A brewery? Sansa recognized the name, but Brienne didn’t and has already forgotten the details.

“Yeah, but it’s fine.”

Brienne doesn’t press it, but Jaime _ does _look tired. Then, she’s confused because there was really no reason for him to wake up and follow her on her run. Unlike yesterday, Jaime takes her request for silence seriously, even if it’s only because he thinks she’ll snap at him. She looks backwards, eventually, to find Jaime half a block behind--she’d say her endurance was better, but he’d kept pace with her yesterday, while yammering on and on.

When Jaime catches up, Brienne turns a different corner than usual.

“You’re tired,” she tells him, pointing to a cafe table, “_Sit_.”

She expects an argument, but Jaime collapses into the metal chair in silence. Brienne goes over to the food truck she knows is always parked on this corner, and orders two green juices. Then, she sits down across from him and places his on the table with more force than necessary.

“Drink this. It’s boosted.”

Jaime looks at her like he has no idea what that means, but he takes a sip. “It tastes like grass.”

“Because it has spinach in it."

They drink in blessed silence, and Brienne watches Jaime across the table. He makes a face like a child given broccoli every time he puts the straw in his mouth, but he keeps drinking. And he’s _ drenched _ with sweat--the neck of his shirt is dark with it, and his hair is sticking to his neck.

_ He looks like a drowned rat, too. _ It’s such a _ stupid _ thought, but Brienne really did expect Jaime to have his own version of Margaery’s post-workout selfie glow.

“You need a hair tie.” Brienne takes the spare one off her wrist and passes it across the table. “I always regret when I forget to pin mine up.”

Jaime takes the hair tie, pulling at it like a rubber band. He gathers his hair at the base of his neck twice, huffing in irritation when the damp strands slide out. 

“This is new.” 

He says it in the tone of a man who’s gone through too many changes at once, like the hair tie is the last straw in a long procession of uncomfortable newness. Maybe she’s reading into it too much, but the scene moves her.

“Let me,” she says because when she's struggling, _ this _ is what Brienne wants--_care_, and for someone to notice. She takes the tie and stands behind him, gathers Jaime's soggy hair and pulls it higher than he had. There's an impulse to linger after his hair is secured, but she resists. "It needs to be higher on your head until it gets longer."

Jaime doesn't respond, just turns his head and looks up at her. This close, Brienne notices the flecks of darker green in his eyes, the few strands of gray near his temples, the lines from where he’s scowled or laughed. Magazine Jaime was a static image, superficially charming, but distant. Neighbor Jaime, looking up at her, is painfully human; there’s a deep uncertainty to the way he furrows his brow, like he’s confused at the attention she’s paying him.

Brienne puts her hand on his shoulder, ignores how clammy he feels. “Why are you here?”

“Because exercise after age thirty is vital.” He sounds like he’s quoting a magazine article.

“Not literally _ here_,” she replies, “Living next door to us.”

Jaime stiffens, “There...was a woman.”

_ A breakup? Wouldn’t that have made the tabloids? _

“You’re thinking about gossip rags,” Jaime guesses at her silence, smirking now. “It was...an affair. Well, it wasn’t always, but her father pressured her to marry, and it became one. She was...controlling and mean, so I left."

"I’m glad you ended things, then.”

"But leaving meant... _ leaving_," Jaime looks away from her. "And I don't know what I'm like without her."

* * *

“Come out with us.”

“But I’m reading the book_ you _ asked me to read,” Brienne protests. It’s not _ Florian and Jonquil_, but a romance about a businessman who falls in love with a prostitute. 

The book distracts Sansa for a moment, “How _ are _ you liking that?”

Brienne blushes, “The, um, smut in this one is...spicier.” 

“But they have feelings for each other and don’t know it yet--unresolved emotional tension._ That’s _what’s delicious about it.”

“It’s sad, though, because their communication skills are so poor,” Brienne, sometimes, thinks herself too pragmatic for fantasy. She’s oddly invested in the mental health of these fictional characters. Each would benefit from a therapist.

Sansa scoffs at her fondly, “Read it for the fact that she handcuffs him to the bed. Think of it like a female power fantasy.”

“...Sure?”

“You _ hate _it,” Sansa declares, “I’ll find you a better one. Something else with knights and ladies.”

“...I’ll finish it.”

“Heh. _ Pervert_.”

“Then what are you?”

Sansa grabs her purse off the rack near the door, “A girl who needs a drink. Come on, Brienne, get up and put on real pants.”

* * *

Brienne can’t say no to Sansa; it’s why they eat pizza twice a week, why she spent all her bus rides for the last month reading erotic novels, and why she’s walking along a gentified street in Flea Bottom on a Friday night with Sansa, Arya, and Margaery.

Margaery, as usual, looks like she expects a magazine to stop and take her picture; or, more likely, she’s looking for the perfect selfie spot. Brienne tries to imagine walking in the heels Margaery’s wearing, and can’t. Nevermind how fucking _ tall _ she’d be if she wore them.

Sansa’s wearing a sundress and espadrilles, her hair braided around the crown of her head. She walks arm-in-arm with Arya, who’s donned her typical jeans and some band t-shirt. She’s the only member of the group who looks more casual than Brienne. Sansa told her the blue shirt she’d chosen looked nice, so Brienne believed her.

“Arya wants us to meet this guy she’s seeing,” Sansa tells her as they walk.

“Don’t make a big deal of it,” Arya mumbles, “I just promised I’d visit him at work.”

“Dad isn’t here, so I have to vet him,” Sansa replies. She affects a mock-serious tone, “He works at a bar? Is he in school? Does he respect you?””

Arya rolls her eyes, “He’s studying to be a mechanic, and he has a part-time job, yes.”

“Sounds like a catch,” Margaery chimes in, “Is he good looking?”

Arya shrugs, “I mean, I think so.”

Brienne doesn’t talk much, as usual. Listening to the three of them chat is fine, and they don’t mind her tall and surly self trailing behind them. Female friendship still feels like a pair of shoes that need broken in, but she’s earnestly trying. Everytime her father calls, he asks about her social life.

They stop, and Brienne looks up at the sign above the door--Blackwater Brewery. The place has the same _ look _ as everything in Flea Bottom--a glass front, booths and counters made of light-colored wood, weird industrial chairs that will make Brienne feel like she’s sitting at a kid’s table.

Sansa grabs her arm and whispers, “Jaime works here.”

_ Oh fuck_. “You’re right.”

“What’s up?” Arya sticks her head between them.

“Your _ lover _ and our neighbor are co-workers.” Sansa accentuates the word _ lover_, and Arya groans.

“Don’t fucking call Gendry that, _ please_.”

“So _ that’s _his name!”

She’s never seen Jaime in public--the two halves of him are still completely bisected in Brienne’s mind. Who works here, pouring beer, explaining the tap list, and chatting with customers? Is it aloof magazine Jaime, or the Jaime who she taught how to fold towels last week? 

They exist separately, or he’s morphing from one to the other, like a butterfly in a cocoon. Brienne just doesn’t know which is true.

“Who’s who?” Margaery pulls her from her thoughts.

Arya’s gone, Brienne notices, talking to a guy at the bar who looks eerily like Renly Baratheon. 

“That’s probably Gendry.”

Margaery looks, “Does he look like Renly, or am I losing it?”

“If you are, than so am I.”

Sansa pushes between them and links arms, and Brienne lets herself be pulled along. “My sister is making cow eyes at that guy, and I need a drink.”

Jaime’s talking while gesticulating wildly, but he’s too far away for Brienne to make out words. He _ looks _ like neighbor Jaime; Brienne’s definitely seen that shirt before. Brienne slumps onto an open stool, hoping to go unnoticed--a fool’s errand, when she’s half a head above the rest of the patrons. 

_ I should have stayed home. _ She stares at the tap list and starts to feel a bit down on herself. All the beer names blur together into meaninglessness. This must be how Jaime felt at the juice bar, where he’d looked at both Brienne and Sansa and said “What the _ fuck _ is this shit?”

“Brienne,” Margaery pokes her on the shoulder, “Am I looking at a Jaime Lannister clone down there?”

“No,” Brienne replies.

“But he looks _ exactly_\--”

“No,” Brienne repeats.

“I’ve been invited to dinner parties with Loras by the Lannisters. It’s been like a year, but I’d know better than you--”

Then, Sansa ends Brienne’s suffering by yelling, “Jaime! We came to visit you.”

Margaery doesn’t shock easily, but she’s slack jawed when she looks back at Brienne.

“Not a clone,” Brienne sighs heavily, “That’s the genuine article.”

“_What happened to him?” _

Worse yet, before Brienne can answer, Jaime comes up to them. “Margaery Tyrell, and my wonderful neighbors. I can probably talk Bronn into getting you a free round.”

“I can check-in here.” Margaery recovers quickly, taking out her smartphone and smiling at Jaime like she expected to see the heir to house Lannister _ exactly _where he is.

Jaime nods, “...Sure?”

If they were in their building, Jaime would ask Sansa what the hell that means. Instead, he answers all of Sansa’s questions about the tap list. Even with the descriptions, Brienne is still lost. 

“Just pick something for Brienne,” she hears Sansa say, “We trust you.”

_ Oh gods_.

When Jaime returns, he places the pint glass on the bar counter, atop a paper coaster. The beer is dark, and Brienne stares at it before looking at Jaime.

“It’s a stout,” Jaime explains, and she _ hates _ the grin he gives her, “Bronn named it the Wench; it made me think of you.”


	4. Blossoming Alone Over You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"The self is cultivated through solitude,” Tyrion replied, putting a hand on his shoulder, “I saw that on a mug once. It’ll be really fucking uncomfortable at first, though.”_
> 
> _That one Jaime had written down on an index card and affixed to his fridge with a magnet. He mocks himself for it several times a day, but never takes it down._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back to Jaime this chapter! I'm really proud of this one, so I hope everyone enjoys it. 
> 
> Thank you, as always, for all the kudos and comments. This fanciful idea keeps getting longer. I'm at 30k words now, and nowhere near done. The chapter count will need updated.
> 
> I've adjusted the age at which Cersei and Jaime started being involved. I don't want to deal with the implications of their canon age, and the fact that Jaime doesn't remember it. It's horrifying in canon, and even worse in a modern context. So, sixteen seemed reasonable.
> 
> Chapter title is from "Pink in the Night" by mitski.

In those first few months, Jaime stared at the ceiling in Tyrion’s guestroom, kept awake replaying scenes in his life that seemed like watershed moments.

_What if I had turned Cersei down? _

_What if I’d gone to a college far, far away, somewhere beyond Father’s influence? _

_What if I’d ended things when Cersei married Robert? _

The _ what if _spiral is a dangerous one, and more than once, Jaime worked himself into an existential panic over the lives unlived his choices had closed off. Tyrion found him, once, sitting on the couch in the middle of the night, deep into his brother’s stash of whiskey.

“What have I even _ done_?” he slurred.

“You’re going to have to be more specific for me to help.”

So, Jaime told Tyrion every stupid, intrusive thought--how he felt completely adrift and didn’t know how to build a life for himself without the structure of what he’d been told was his. He’d been on a track, unfulfilling but easy to maintain, and without it, he feels reduced to a child.

“The self is cultivated through solitude,” Tyrion replied, putting a hand on his shoulder, “I saw that on a mug once. It’ll be really fucking uncomfortable at first, though.”

That one Jaime _ had _ written down on an index card and affixed to his fridge with a magnet. He mocks himself for it several times a day, but never takes it down.

* * *

“The self is cultivated through solitude,” Sansa stares at his fridge and reads it aloud.

“Gonna make fun of me?”

"No,” Sansa replies, “I was going to say _ still waters run deep_, but that implies you’re calm and collected, and you’re not. I didn’t take you for the motivational quote type, though.”

“It’s something my brother told me,” he answers, “And I think I hide my mess pretty well.”

“Until you turned all your socks pink by washing them with a red shirt, yes.”

"That's not the same problem," Jaime protests.

Sansa's friendship is a strange thing--she’s fifteen years his junior, and their only commonality seems to be Brienne, and their weird schedules. Brienne has a day job, like a normal adult, but Sansa is a student, and Jaime spends half his time working at night. They cross paths on odd afternoons. They go to lunch, and Jaime pointedly tries to ignore the weird looks they get.

“They think I’m a golddigger,” Sansa whispers over her salad. It’s uncommonly healthy for her, but the amount of dressing she pours on it _ might _ undermine that.

“No one knows me,” Jaime answers.

Sansa rolls her eyes, “_ Everyone _knows you.”

“Then they think I’m some rich fuck who goes after younger women.”

"_Pffft_. As if I would _ ever_. You’re a mess.”

Jaime laughs along with her, but it’s a bit true, and it stings.

* * *

When he’s lived in his apartment for six weeks, has chairs to sit in, a bed to sleep in, and three spatulas that Sansa gifted him, a new feeling settles over Jaime. He reads _ Florian and Jonquil _ before he goes to bed at night, ten or fifteen pages at a time, and starts to understand why so many copies are selling.

Behind the flowery prose, Tyrion captured a _ feeling_\--one people long to have, or long to reclaim, and it resonates. Jaime still cringes reading smut, skims over whole paragraphs to get past it, but when Jonquil beckons Florian into to the water, and they kiss, wet skin pressed close together, all he longs for is the sheer intimacy of the scene. It's imbued with this _ care _ that makes his heart skip.

_“Ser,” Jonquil looks over her shoulder, “take my hair down.” _

_“Of course, my lady.” _

_Florian has no knowledge of the mysteries of a woman’s hair, so he chooses pins and ribbons and random, marveling at the way the complex weave of braids softens and slowly comes undone. He puts an arm around Jonquil’s waist, kissing the back of her neck as another ribbon falls onto the bed. _

_When Florian pulls Jonquil to him, so close that she can feel the press of his manhood against her, she gasps. Florian chuckles into her ear, pulling the last ribbon out, so Jonquil’s hair tumbles over her shoulder, covering her breasts. _

_“I may be a fool, my lady, but I want you.” _

Cersei and he certainly never fucked like that. Her affection was calculated, and her touch possessive. Jaime told himself _ I am hers, and she is mine_, but it was a lie. _ He _ was hers, bound by a chain he thought was a choice; his sister would let no one claim her.

The next time Jaime takes his cock in his hand, he thinks, for the first time, not of his golden twin but of tenderness and the closest thing he’s ever experienced--Brienne’s fingers combing through his sweat-damp hair.

* * *

“Wench!”

The nickname stuck, at least for Jaime, since he handed her the beer nearly two weeks ago. It irritates Brienne, but amuses Jaime greatly, so he tries not to abuse it.

Their door is ajar, and Jaime knocks on the doorframe. There’s no answer, so he calls out. “I’m coming into your living room. If you’re indecent, I’m going to see! This is your warning.”

“I’m not even inside.”

Jaime turns around to find Brienne holding her recycling bin. “Oh, that’s not nearly as fun; I was hoping you were in the bath.”

She walks past him and places the bin inside the door, “I’m not even responding to that.”

“Call for me next time,” Jaime grins, “I’ll wash your back.”

Now, Brienne closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath like she’s just endured something especially trying. “Jaime, what do you want?”

“To be your friend.”

“You’re _ not _making a strong case for it.”

“Cook dinner with me.”

“_Why? _”

“Because I want it to be edible,” Jaime answers, “And I want to learn.”

She smiles, just the smallest upward quirk of her lips, “You’re hopeless, but fine.”

Jaime follows her into her apartment, “What are you making?”

“Why am I not surprised that you suggested this with _ nothing _ in mind?” Brienne opens her fridge and surveys the contents. “Do you even have food in your fridge?”

“There’s a growler of ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair.’” Bronn gave it to him last night at the end of his shift. “And cheese. And...eggs. And an apple.”

“So nothing that could _ actually _ make anything?”

“....No.”

Brienne starts pulling ingredients out and placing them on the counter. Jaime tries to guess where she’s going with it, but can’t. “Can you dice an onion?”

“_Pfft. _ Of course.”

Two minutes with the knife proves otherwise, yielding a pile of onion that looks like its been hacked at with an axe.

“You lied,” Brienne looks at the pile. 

“I...overestimated the ease of it,” Jaime corrects.

Brienne sighs, but gives Jaime easier tasks after that. He _ can _ boil water, and he can stir things. Her directions are gentle, and detailed, but he never feels like she’s patronizing him. When Jaime tells her so, Brienne blushes and turns back to the stove. Jaime wants to do something foolish, then, like wrap his arms around her and rest his chin on her shoulder. He'd have to go up on his tiptoes to manage, but that's fine. 

Or, he could push aside her hair and kiss the freckled skin of her neck.

_Where the fuck are all these soft thoughts coming from? _ Jaime knows, though--it's that he's never cooked with someone before, and the domesticity is giving him a lot of _ feelings_. So, he waits in silence, doing what Brienne asks, until they're seated across from each other at her small table. 

"No books of Sansa's to move today," Brienne jokes.

“Sansa told me _ you _ read them, too,” Jaime teases, “Like _ Florian and Jonquil_.”

“...Under duress.”

“I think you like them,” Jaime stabs at a zucchini with his fork. Has he ever eaten one before? “The romance.”

“Maybe _ you _ should try reading it.”

Jaime shrugs, “I started it. It’s not bad.”

Brienne just stares.

“This is way better than grilled cheese,” Jaime continues as he twirls pasta around his fork. It’s whole wheat, which makes it weirdly chewy, but he doesn’t mind.

“Is that all you’ve managed?”

“No,” Jaime thinks, “I made eggs, but I didn’t butter the skillet, so they stuck. And I can construct a wonderful lunch meat sandwich.”

“...A sandwich isn’t cooking,” Brienne replies, “but...good for you.”

“Are you _ complimenting _ me?” 

“Don’t let it inflate your ego too much.”

“Wench, any ego I had has been completely dashed in the last year,” Jaime takes another bite of pasta. “I left my bubble and crashed face-first into the ground.”

Brienne’s praise seems like a hard-earned thing--she’s not overly critical, but she isn’t effusive with it, either. It’s ridiculous, but he wants her to be proud of him. She seems so capable and steadfast, and Jaime admires her for it.

“Listen,” Brienne looks straight at him, and Jaime feels like her blue eyes are peering into his soul. “You father didn’t raise you to be a real human; he raised you to...inherit the Lannister empire, whatever that means. I don’t know the shit you’ve been through, but don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I...wasn’t good at what Father wanted me to do, either.” _ What am I good at, really? _“It just didn’t matter, as long as I looked the part.”

“Magazine Jaime.”

"...What?"

He's never seen Brienne look as embarrassed as she does--she blushes to her ears and nearly turns around in her chair to keep from looking at him. 

"I had an idea of you," she tells the dishwasher, "from hearing about you from Margaery, or seeing you in the news. Magazine Jaime seemed like a jerk. You're...not that person at all. You're an ass, don't get me wrong, but you're neighbor Jaime."

“Neighbor Jaime,” he repeats, “You make me sound like two different people.”

“I thought you were, at first,” Brienne looks back at him, and seems to have the blushing under control. “Now, I just think you’re changing.”

“It’s uncomfortable,” Jaime admits, the closest he’s ever come to voicing the weakness he feels. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Don’t wait for the moment of clarity; it doesn’t come.”

_She’s right, isn’t she? _Jaime eats more to stall for time. “You’re a sagely twenty…”

“...Four,” Brienne finishes.

_Gods, she’s barely older than Sansa, isn’t she? _ It’s better than his sister, right, to be attracted to Brienne? Eleven years isn’t _ so _ bad. It’d probably be better if he felt like he had his life together a bit more. On paper, he _ looked _ better a year ago, even if he felt terrible when he stopped to think. Now, though, Brienne’s togetherness seems like an aspiration.

She’s looking at him, all kind concern, and Jaime wants to immerse himself in that expression, lay every damaged part of him at her feet, let Brienne pick up the pieces in the hope that she can give him solace. 

“I like neighbor Jaime,” Brienne says once she’s noticed his silence.

_I like you, too_, Jaime wants to respond, but he’s pretty certain Brienne _ doesn’t _ mean that she thinks about him while reading _ Florian and Jonquil _ and wants to walk around the table and kiss him. She probably doesn’t stare at her ceiling at night, wondering about intimacy, about what can exist between two people other than desperate possession.

He’d lose his shit, more than he already has, if that were the case.

* * *

It takes him three days to work up the courage and find the right time to tell Sansa. An afternoon class is cancelled, and he’s off for the day, and when Sansa unlocks her door, Jaime sticks his head into the hallway.

“Can I talk to you?”

“Sure,” Sansa replies, smiling, “Let me put my bag down.”

When she enters Jaime’s apartment, she finds him pacing the length of the living room.

“So, what’s up?”

“Don’t laugh,” Jaime stops pacing and points at Sansa. “I think I have feelings for Brienne.”

Sansa’s eyebrows shoot upward, “...Feelings?”

“Yes. Like..._romantic _ ones.”

“Like...a crush.” How does Sansa even _ raise _her eyebrows that high?

“I’m not thirteen!” Jaime blurts and returns to pacing a hole into the floor. Sansa looks at him like she’s going to tell him that he is, in fact, thirteen. He fucking _ feels _thirteen, for all he is equipped to deal with his life. 

“You want help.” Sansa’s telling him, not asking, which is _ just _ like her.

“Gods, _ yes_.” Jaime pulls his hands through his hair and it feels like it takes forever to get to the ends of it. “What do I do?”

“You’re a thirty-five-year-old man. What do you mean_ ‘what do you do?’ _”

_I can’t tell her about Cersei. She’ll run screaming and never come back_. Jaime never felt shame over it, not before. No one understood, and no one needed to. Now, he needs someone to know how Cersei shaped him, how she’s _ still _affecting him. She’s in what he does, what he doesn’t do. Sometimes, Jaime thinks he’ll never be rid of her, wishes he could give voice to that fear. 

It’s not meant to be.

“I’ve...never actually asked a woman out before.” 

Maybe. _ Maybe _ that sounds better than _ my sister climbed into my bed when I was sixteen, told me we were one person and meant to be, touched my cock, and then nearly twenty years passed. _ It just makes him sound lame, which is better than what he _ actually _is.

Sansa _ should _be laughing, but she isn’t; she’s just looking at him. Then, she asks, with all seriousness, “Jaime, no judgment here, but are you a virgin?”

Jaime freezes, like Sansa’s question shoved him into oncoming traffic, and he’s waiting to be made into a human pancake. Then, he comes to his senses and screeches, “No! It was just...the same woman, for a long time, and _ she _ started it. And Brienne is...Brienne, and you’re her friend.”

“So, you’re _ not _ a one-and-done kinda guy?”

Now, there’s judgment in Sansa’s voice._ Not for Brienne_, she might as well have said. Even turned on him, Jaime likes that about Sansa, that she fiercely protects her friends. 

“No,” he repeats. 

Any negative emotion dissipates from Sansa’s expression. “You’re a sap. Got it. You also flirt like you’re thirteen.”

“I’ve _ never _ flirted with Brienne.” 

“What about your feigned ineptitude at housework?”

“That’s...Tywin Lannister’s parenting didn’t include cooking or laundry.”

“You wanted _ Brienne’s _ help,” Sansa accuses, “And calling her ‘wench’? _ Really? _”

Brienne blushed and sputtered each time, so Jaime enjoyed it. Maybe Sansa had a point about orchestrating situations to interact with Brienne.

“I thought it was funny.”

“I’m sure you did.” Sansa rolls her eyes, then walks over and grabs his copy of _Florian and Jonquil _off the coffee table. “You’re _both _idiots. And saps; let’s start here.”

* * *

“Tyrion! You’re back.”

Jaime looks up from the bar, where he’d been stacking glasses during the afternoon lull. It’s a nice afternoon; Bronn pushed the glass garage door open, and a cool breeze wafts in.

Bronn goes out from behind the bar to greet Tyrion, who holds out his hand. Then, the two of them do some sort of weird fist bump bro handshake that makes Jaime roll his eyes.

“Do the two of you have a _ fucking handshake_?” he calls out.

Bronn grins, “Tyrion hooks me up with good shit, so yeah, we do.”

Jaime can imagine, in more detail than he wishes, what _ good shit _is. “It’s kinda lame.”

“You’re thirty-five and work here.” 

Jaime’s used to being dragged, so he lets it roll off his back. “You’re here, too,” he replies.

“Yeah, but I fucking _ own _the place.”

Tyrion laughs at them, “Don’t tease him too badly, Bronn. Jaime is sensitive.”

“I’ll cry, Bronn, like a little girl.”

Bronn howls with laughter and slaps his leg, “You _ fucking _Lannisters. What the fuck.”

Tyrion climbs onto a bar stool, and Jaime hands him a tap list. “Just pick one and don’t be an ass.”

“But I want you to read it to me,” Tyrion answers, “You, Jaime Lannister, who works in the service industry, are required to tell me _ all _about this list.”

“I’m happy to answer any of your questions.” Jaime gives Tyrion his best customer service voice, cheerfully singsong and completely affected. It might also carry an underlying note of _ I want to stab you_.

“Just pick something, Jaime. Since I’m back in town, I wanted to check on you.”

He hasn’t actually seen his brother since a couple weeks after he ceased overstaying his welcome in his guestroom. Tyrion left to do something with his book--probably a series of interviews with strict non-disclosure agreements. For Tyrion, the pen name was half the fun.

“Thanks,” Jaime replies. There are so few people who would genuinely ask after him. He picks something Tyrion would like and places it on the counter.

Tyrion takes a sip and nods, “How are you, Jaime?”

“I’m...good,” Jaime replies. “Really. Never better.”

The smile Tyrion gives him is genuine, and he grips Jaime’s forearm. “So, you read my book.”

_Ugh_. _ I never should’ve texted him that. _ “Cover to cover.”

“I was jesting when I put it in your suitcase,” Tyrion chuckles and takes a drink, “I didn’t expect you to read it.”

“Because it’s a book, or because it’s yours?”

“...Yes.”

Jaime shrugs, doesn’t want to tell Tyrion about the assault of _ feelings _ the book hit him with. “My neighbors read it.”

“Are they women in their twenties, or horny, middle-age housewives?”

“The former,” Jaime replied. Sansa clearly like romance, so her reading the book made sense. Brienne is a mystery. He can’t imagine her pining for a handsome knight in her room. For an entirely _ different _ set of reasons, he doesn't want to think of her doing anything more than pining.

“Please,” Tyrion says, “invite me over some time; I want to meet these fans of mine.”

* * *

If it was like times of old, and Jaime, as the first born son, was Lord of Casterly Rock, the ancestral seat of their house, he would have appointed Sansa Stark to his war council. She slaps _ Florian and Jonquil _on his coffee table like it’s a map of Westeros, and she’s prepared to move troops across it.

“You’re very serious,” Jaime tells her, “Over flirting.”

“Brienne deserves romance,” Sansa exclaims, “and you’re gonna do it.”

It’s either a bold, brilliant plan, or Jaime is utterly fucked.

“...Okay.”

“How does Florian woo Jonquil?” Sansa sounds like she’s giving him a pop quiz.

For once, though, Jaime’s done the reading. “He spies on her while she’s bathing, Sansa. Do you think that’s a good place to begin?” Brienne would probably slug him, and it would _ hurt_.

“...No,” Sansa pauses, “...but I _ love _ that scene. And then they--”

“When he takes her hair down, right?” Jaime hates that he’s finishing her thoughts, hates that they clearly reacted to the fucking passage in the same way. Hates all the more that _ Tyrion _wrote it. “It’s really--”

“Romantic. _ Sensual_,” Sansa sighs wistfully, “Not a starting point.”

“He gives her flowers,” Jaime opens the book and flips through it, “It’s near the middle, though; she’s not a maiden when he does it.”

“You’re thinking about having sex with Brienne,” Sansa waggles her finger at him. “This is inspiration, not a user manual.”

Jaime decides _ not _to address the first part of her comment, “She made me dinner. Flowers, to thank her.”

Now, Sansa claps her hands in glee. “_Perfect_. Do it.”

“What else?”

“Wine, maybe? It seems like Florian’s love language is gifts. Brienne might prefer gestures, though.” Sansa thumbs through the book, “He gives Jonquil a horse..._ that _ won’t work. Maybe pick her up from work? Woo her with food?”

Jaime grumbles, “Definitely not an instruction manual.”

* * *

So, Jaime does as Sansa bid him, even though he doesn’t know shit about flowers. Florian gives Jonquil daffodils, an easy choice. Brienne has an herb garden on the kitchen window sill, but that doesn’t help. Sansa had no suggestions either.

Jaime picks roses, interspersed with some other things he doesn’t recognize. Cost doesn’t matter--he’s got a stockpile, and his tips are good.

Brienne answers her door, and Jaime, feeling like a complete fool, holds the bouquet out to her. “For dinner, wench,” he says, shifting from one foot to the other, “And for laundry help, and all the other shit.”

Her eyes widen, just a fraction, and she opens her mouth to speak, but doesn’t. Jaime feels like he accidentally opened one of those doors where an alarm sounds. A klaxon is blaring in the vicinity, but he’s not sure why or from where.

Then, Brienne slams her door shut and leaves him standing in the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on tumblr @ https://kurikaesu-haru.tumblr.com/


	5. Asking for a Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Brienne stares at her closed door for an entire minute before she realizes she’s done something incredibly rude, and now she’s going to have to explain herself. _
> 
> _For a second, she was seventeen, and Jaime was Ronnet Connington._ “A rose is all you’ll ever get from me, no matter how much money’s in it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the response this fic has gotten! I am beyond amazed it has over 200 kudos. The chapter count for this has been updated to 12, although it may change yet again. When I started writing this, I told myself "10k, tops!" and now it's 35k, sooooo....
> 
> Enjoy Brienne, again, and some actual relationship development!

Brienne stares at her closed door for an entire minute before she realizes she’s done something incredibly rude, and now she’s going to have to explain herself. 

For a second, she was seventeen, and Jaime was Ronnet Connington. “_ A rose is all you’ll ever get from me, no matter how much money’s in it. _”

It was a bet, a ploy her embarrass her; they’d given her gifts, and walked to her to class. She’d been kissed, twice, and one of them was willing to take the hit and sleep with her when the wager got big enough. 

She’s hated roses ever since, but how would Jaime know that?

_ He’s trying to mock you_, a voice she wants to stomp out whispers. It blends with Ronnet, and _ Brienne the Beauty_, and any other awful name they’d called her. Sansa didn’t even know these stories.

_ I’m not being fair. _

Jaime’s frozen the exact way she left him, shock writ on his features and flowers still in hand.

“Come in,” she says, “If you still want to.”

Jaime listens, and relief floods her; she can fix this, if she can muster her stumbling words. She talks to people all day, but never about herself, and never where her behavior put her at the disadvantage. 

“I’m sorry,” she stumbles, “that was rude of me, and probably made no sense.”

_ Something _slides into place on Jaime’s face--the shocked uncertainty is gone, and he’s smirking. He looks like magazine Jaime--glib and aloof. “I’ve had worse than a door slammed in my face by a woman, wench. I’ll manage.”

_ Who would do that? _ The woman he left, maybe. _ Jaime said she was cruel_.

She takes the flowers, sitting them on the counter and digging around in the upper cabinets for a vase. When she finds one, dusty from disuse, she rinses it and places the flowers in it.

“Do you want coffee?”

“Sure.”

She grinds the beans and fills the coffee press, her back to Jaime, “Sansa doesn’t know this, so please don’t tell her.”

“You don’t need to explain.” Jaime’s tone is the same as before--she’s lost him, a step backwards.

“No, I do,” she turns around when the press is filled with water, “When I was in high school, some guys, they made a bet about me--anyway, there was a rose, and it was _ mortifying_. He could have just _ not_, but he wanted to shame me, in public.“

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ve had trouble looking at roses every since.”

“I’ll take them--”

“Leave them, please,” she turns, grabbing two mugs, “It’s just a flower; it’s stupid to be bothered by something so long ago, and to let to ruin other things.”

Jaime leans against the counter beside her. Brienne always hated towering over everyone, even most men. Jaime only has to tilt his chin up to meet her eyes, and she feels comfortable with an aspect of herself that usually bothers her.

He does so, now--looks up at her, studies her. “It’s not that easy...to forget the past.”

“I shouldn’t take it out on others,” she looks her socked feet. “Th--thank you, for the flowers. No one’s ever--”

“Well,” Jaime smiles, “Now someone has.”

“I came to King’s Landing for school a year early, so I’ve only seen one of them since. He apologized.” Brienne doesn’t want to tell Jaime about Hyle’s apology, or the fact that she always felt he was trying to work through his guilt over the bet. She’d felt nothing when she broke up with him.

“There’s lots of shitty people in the word,” Jaime goes to the fridge and gets the half-and-half. “I just realized I know where everything is in your kitchen.”

“Because you bum dinner off us every other night.”

“I’m not a bum; I’m like a...sous chef.”

_ One that would get fired_. The joke is on the tip of Brienne’s tongue, but maybe Jaime needs someone to affirm that his effort is showing, that the increments have meaning, even if the goal seems high as the clouds. People give up when nothing seems to be changing.

“Your last onion dicing was much improved,” she says instead. The coffee is done, so she striains out the grounds and takes the press to the table. 

Jaime sits next to her, this time, and dumps as much sugar into his coffee as Sansa. Their knees bump under the table, and Brienne manages not to skitter away, startled.

“I made an omelette a couple days ago,” Jaime’s voice is filled with pride, “Well, it was kinda like scrambled eggs with shit mixed in, but it came out of the pan and tasted good.”

“You’ll be a functional adult yet.”

* * *

Brienne arrives home for work the next afternoon to find Sansa spread out in her usual spot on her couch. She’s holding a book over her head and, uncharacteristically, her phone is out of reach on the kitchen table.

“Sansa, are you reading _ A Caution for Young Girls_?”

“Yep,” she replies, “and this is _ homework_.”

“...That must be a dream come true for you.”

She flings the book onto the coffee table and sits up. “This version is really good, too--it has the parts that are believed to be from the original labeled, along with different additions, who added them and when.”

Brienne sits next to Sansa and picks up the book. The cover is decorated with an illustration of who Brienne assumes is Coryanne Wylde in a Lysene pleasure house. “She’s credited as the author, but…”

“...Probably isn’t,” Sansa finishes. “There’s academic scholarship in the back. The speculation on who actually wrote it is pretty interesting.”

“She becomes a septa at the end,” Brienne thumbs through the book, “Like a punishment.”

Sansa nods, “She’s a victim half the time, but she has moments of agency.”

A few moments pass in silence as Brienne flips open the book to random passages--each one she chooses seems equally debauched. Eventually, she puts the book down on the coffee table._ Not exactly _ Florian and Jonquil.

“Those are pretty,” Sansa points the roses on the table.

“Jaime brought them last night, as a thank you for dinner.”

“_Interesting_,” Sansa replies. Brienne knows that grin on her face, one corner of her mouth upturned--Sansa is _ plotting_. “Sweet, too.”

“If he gives us flowers everytime we do something for him, every table will be covered with them in a week’s time.”

Sansa’s grin widens, “_Us? _”

“You help him just as much as I do!”

“It’s not the same,” Sansa lilts, walking to the table and smelling the flowers. “Jaime and I are like...girlfriends.”

“_Girlfriends_?”

“Yeah,” Sansa replies, “Like...going to brunch and being catty bitches.”

Brienne is confused for a second, then imagines Jaime and Sansa drinking mimosas under an umbrella in Flea Bottom. _ Oh gods, it fits perfectly. It should make no sense, but it does. _

“Is _ that _ what the two of you do when I’m not around?”

“Sometimes.”

Brienne’s arrived home, more than once, to find Jaime and Sansa side-by-side on their couch, eating chips and drinking beer Jaime brought over. They’re usually laughing at something on Sansa’s phone, or talking about weird rumors in their shared social circle of rich, old houses of Westeros. Brienne suspects Sansa is keeping him in the loop on things he’s missing due to his self-imposed exile.

“And...what are Jaime and I like?”

Sansa’s grin is almost a leer, now, “_ Certainly _ not that.”

* * *

The flowers are a first in a strange procession of gifts and gestures from Jaime. 

Two days after the flowers, a growler appears in their fridge, a note attached to it that reads, “Some Wench for the Wench. :D”

Brienne stares at it a minute before yelling, “Sansa? Why is there a growler of Wench in our fridge?”

“It was there when I got home from class,” Sansa calls from her room.

“But...how?” Brienne stares at the opaque depths of the stout for a long moment, “Did you...give Jaime a key?”

Sansa’s head appears out her bedroom door this time, “Should I not have? I thought it’d be good for someone other than Arya to have one.”

“No, it’s...fine,” Brienne takes the growler out and pours some into a glass; if Jaime poured it, there’d be much less foam. He’d put a pint in front of her the last three times she’d visited the brewery. 

Then, even though it isn’t even five in the afternoon, Brienne thinks of Jaime, smiling and passing the pint across the bar, and takes a sip. 

* * *

The next day, Jaime’s car appears outside her work--the black sports car, the last tangible proof of his former life, looks as ridiculous in her office parking lot as it does in its covered parking spot next to their building.

Worse yet is that Jaime isn’t even _in _the car; he’s leaning against it, hands in his pockets like he’s in a damn car commercial. Only the car is _utterly_ magazine Jaime, and Jaime...isn’t. He’s wearing jeans and a shirt reading Blackwater Brewery. The afternoon light is right, and Brienne feels like a summer breeze hits Jaime and tousles his hair _just _in time for her to stop and stare at him. _What did Margaey say about photography and the golden hour? _Jaime makes her heart sputter and her mouth dry, and the fact that she had to tell him how to hold a knife while chopping a cucumber two weeks ago doesn’t dampen her reaction at all. 

“Keep your fingers curled in, like a cat’s paw, unless you want to lose a few,” she’d told him.

“Yes, ser,” he’d answered, giving her a mock salute.

Her co-worker, Jon Snow, stops near the curb, looks at Jaime, then looks at Brienne, and whispers, “Why is there a model in our parking lot?”

Brienne wants to facepalm, like in that meme Sansa showed her. “Um.”

“He looks like what a king should look like.” Jon is staring, “Can’t you see it? Give him a sword, some armor...”

“You play too many tabletop fantasy games.”

“I keep telling you that _ Night’s Watch _is fun--”

Much like Sansa, Jaime has both wonderful _ and _ terrible timing. “Wench!” he yells.

_ Why, why, why have I ever spared a sentimental feeling over this idiotic, irritating man? _ Jaime ruins the picture when he _ speaks_, and something he thinks is clever comes out of his mouth. It’s usually mildly rude or inappropriate.

“I have a name!” she shouts back, suddenly incensed, “It’s Brienne.”

“You _ know _ him?” Jon whispers.

“I’ve come to pick you up, my lady.”

Jon sniggers, and Brienne wishes for an impromptu sinkhole to open in the parking lot.

“Your knight awaits, apparently.”

“He’s my neighbor,” Brienne hopes that will explain everything, but it probably doesn’t.

Jaime walks over to them, all casual confidence, and Brienne has to admire his ability to perform. He’s smiling like he does at bar patrons--Brienne’s watches women swoon after that smile. _ I won’t; I absolutely won’t. _

“Why are you here, Jaime?”

He pauses, and there’s a little chink in his facede, an earnestness Brienne’s witnessed in her kitchen, or circling back to let him catch up on a run. Neighbor Jaime and magazine Jaime have coalesced--different sides of a coin, but one; Brienne sees the shift from moment-to-moment

“I...honestly just thought you might not want to ride the smelly bus.”

“...How do _ you _ know the bus is smelly?”

_ Jaime Lannister has _ never _ ridden public transportation. _

A shrug, “It seems obvious.”

Jon is still looking at them, and tomorrow’s going to be a fun day. “Bye, Jon. See you tomorrow.” 

“Bye, Brienne,” Jon waves, and wanders to his own car.

Jaime opens the passenger door for her, and when Brienne gets in, she’s surprised at how spacious the interior is. It makes sense, though--Jaime isn’t short, so he wouldn’t want to be folded up like an accordian in his car.

“You’re...off work?” Brienne guesses once they start moving. She watches Jaime shift through the gears as she waits for him to respond.

“Good guess.”

There are two cups in the holder with blue straws she recognizes. “Is that...coffee?”

“Yep. Front one’s yours.”

Brienne takes the cup and drinks through the straw. It’s hazelnut, her favorite. _ How did he even know that? It had to be Sansa. And why, why, why-- _

“Did I get it right?”

Jaime’s question sounds so guileless, but all Brienne feels is uneasy. “Are you...mocking me? The flowers, the gifts, I--” _ No man has ever given an earnest gift. _ She’s bringing her past into this, like the flowers. _ Or, maybe I’m imagining something else that isn’t there. _

Jaime glances at her, a brief flash, before his eyes are back on the road. Brienne may be imagining it, but she thinks his shoulders slump against the leather of the seat. “You’ve been good to me, better than anyone. Better than--” He stops, clamping his mouth shut.

_ Better than-- _

“I’ve accused you, twice now, of--” Brienne trails off, takes another drink; the coffee is strong, and sweet, and _ right_. “Jaime, you got it right. Thank you.”

They’re silent for the rest of the drive, but when they pull into the parking lot, Jaime opens the door for her, and holds out his hand. Brienne takes it, just long enough to climb out of the seat. 

And it’s a foolish, irreverent thought, but it makes her feel like a lady.

* * *

“Jaime’s brother wants to meet us; I told him he could bring him over tomorrow.”

“For pizza?”

“No,” Sansa huffs in mock-offense, “I’m a high born _ lady _ ; we’re entertaining _ two _Lannisters. I thought we could be fancier.”

“...One of those two Lannisters fell asleep on our couch last night.” Jaime’s shirt had ridden up when he turned onto his side, revealing his stupidly toned stomach, and Sansa had caught Brienne _ utterly _staring.

“A _ snack_,” she’d whispered to Brienne, pointing emphatically at Jaime. “A delicious one! And he could be yours.”

“He needs a minder, not a girlfriend,” Brienne whispered back, “And...it could never be me.”

Sansa giggled into her hand, “But you wouldn’t mind being either?”

Brienne went to bed that night very frustrated, but she wasn’t sure if it was more with Jaime, Sansa, or herself. She couldn’t even bear to read a chapter for Sansa’s latest reading assignment.

Now, Sansa is thumbing through their pile of takeout menus, “We could do the Dornish place down the block.”

Brienne shrugs, “I think you just want to eat olives and drink red wine.”

“...You got me.”

Jaime knocks on the door at half-past six, hilariously formal for someone who seems to feel comfortable using his spare key without asking after only knowing them for two months. 

“Sansa, Brienne, this is my infamous little brother, Tyrion.”

“Literally, very little,” Tyrion replies, “And _ you’re _Brienne Tarth.”

“I...am,” Brienne replies. She holds out her hand to Tyrion, who reaches up, and they meet halfway. She didn’t know what to expect, but someone she needs to sit on the floor to see eye-to-eye with is a bit of a surprise.

“You’re literally _ twice _ my height.”

Jaime grins, “I _ told _ you she was big! She’s strong, too--she can lift stupidly heavy things and run _ forever_.”

“Yes, Jaime, she’s exactly as described.”

Jaime’s commenting on things men have used to insult her, only he sounds like he’s paying her a compliment. He teases her, but Jaime’s never been duplicitous--and the hurt in his expression when she accused him of mockery twists in her gut. She won’t do it again.

“I ordered food!” Sansa exclaims, and Brienne could hug her for her outburst. “Lotsa olives and red wine.”

“I like your friends, Jaime,” Tyrion says, “Much better than the usual Lannister cohort.”

“Low bar, brother, low bar.”

When the food arrives, a myriad of cardboard cartons stacked atop each other, all four of them crowd about the small dining table. The conversation flows naturally, although Brienne is still mostly content to listen.

“Your brother is a _ mess_,” Sansa picks up a stuffed grape leaf and takes a bite, “Like, I think he’d literally _ die _without us.”

“I lived for _ thirty-five _ years just fine!” Jaime protests; he _ might _ be legitimately embarrassed, or he’s on his third glass of wine.

“We had cooks, and maids, and someone came running when we snapped our fingers,” Tyrion shakes his head, “I went through the same thing when I cut the valyrian steel apron strings.”

The teasing continues, and Jaime joins in, taking jibes at himself when appropriate. He seems amused, but Brienne wonders if it’s getting to him. There’s a tiny crease between Jaime’s brows, like when they failed at baking cookies last week. 

“Jaime’s doing really well.” It’s the first thing she’s said in probably five minutes, and the other three look at her. Self-conscious, she takes a too-big gulp of her wine. She doesn’t need to blush from embarrassment if she keeps drinking. “You shouldn’t mock someone who’s trying.”

Jaime looks at her, “Brienne--” 

She’s too serious, too dour; it shows when Sansa and Tyrion look at her. The atmosphere at the table deflates like a popped balloon. _ Jaime was _ fine_, there was no need for me to stick my foot in my mouth. _

“You know,” Tyrion raises his wine glass aloft, “Brienne is right. We should toast to Jaime; he’s had a hell of a year.”

“Yes! To that,” Sansa agrees, and when they clink their glasses in the middle of the table, Jaime looks happy, but like he’d maybe prefer to slide onto the floor and hide under the table.

After dinner, they move to the living room with the wine. Sansa is three or four glasses in, and Brienne sees the moment when she hits the tipping point and turns loquacious.

“You’re _ really _ Tysha?” she says to Tyrion, who swivels his head to Jaime.

“_Jaime_, do I need to make my own fucking brother sign a non-disclosure agreement?”

“No, I--it just came out.”

“Wait,” Brienne can’t stop her interjection, “_you _ wrote _ Florian and Jonquil_?” To be in the room, with author of that _ fucking _ book--

Sansa giggles, “_ Totally _unexpected, right? I thought she was a sexually frustrated middle-aged woman!”

Tyrion looks like he’s won a writing prize, “Thank you, Sansa. That means I’m fucking _ brilliant _at it.”

* * *

Later, when Jaime faceplants on the couch again, and Sansa cleans up the kitchen, Tyrion waves Brienne over to him.

“Brienne, I don’t know what Jaime’s told you about his _ exile _\--”

“There was a woman, and he left; that’s all I know.”

Tyrion tenses, just a bit, but nods, “That’s the gist, yes.”

“I don’t intend to pry--” Who knows what skeletons the Lannisters have in their closet? They probably have _ multiple _ closets, stuffed with more than one in each.

“A year ago,” Tyrion glaces to the couch to the most visible part of his brother: a mop of golden hair, “Jaime was like...a husk. He’s good at faking what others want to see, so it’s hard to tell when he needs--anyway, you’re a weird set of friends for him, but thank you.”

The earnestness of his words makes Brienne flush, “It’s...not so bad. We’ve been cooking, and I think Sansa...shows him memes and goes to brunch.”

Tyrion raises both his eyebrows.

“Okay, fine. _ Maybe _it’s kinda a unique situation.”

“You should take him to bed,” Sansa whispers, winking at her innuendo. 

Tyrion chuckles.

“I mean it, though,” she continues, “Neither of us can drag his ass next door.”

So, Brienne does, gathers Jaime up off the couch by sliding an arm around his back and under his arm. She could lift him, probably, like carrying a bride over the threshold. He’s tall, so it would definitely be awkward, and the concept is too fucking mortfying. So she pokes him in the side until he grunts and walks.

“You’re not drooling on the pillows again,” she says, “Tyrion asked me to deliver you to your bed.”

Jaime doesn’t speak until they’re inside his door. Sansa and Tyrion gave her twin smirks, completely unhelpful, the entire procession. Brienne swears they burst into identical peals of laughter when the door closes. Jaime smells good, and he’s deliciously warm, and dragging him to his room is a new form of torture that Brienne wants to subject herself to over and over.

Brienne’s only been in his bedroom twice; does Jaime really like red this much? Or do Lannisters just gravitate to the color, like they have a genetic marker for it? He’s messy, clothes in piles on the floor. The thing that stands out most to her is the copy of _ Florian and Jonquil _ sitting on the dresser--several pages are dog-eared. Now that she knows Tyrion wrote it, Jaime reading it makes sense, even if reading smut written by his brother must be _ terribly _ awkward.

“You stood up for me,” Jaime mumbles when she drops him on his bed. “Tyrion was just giving me shit, but still.”

“All I did was sour the mood,” she purses her lips, “Sansa covered for it well.”

“_No_,” Jaime reaches up and touches her cheek with with the tips of his fingers. “It felt...good. No one’s ever in my corner. Well...Tyrion is, but he shows his affection by being a cunt.”

Brienne freezes, and Jaime doesn’t move his fingers, “He’s worried for you,”

“I know,” Jaime smiles fondly, “I’m fine, always am. He doesn’t need to.”

_ Is he, though? I really can’t tell_.

“I wasn’t lying,” Brienne looks away from him, wishes Jaime would drop his hand, wishes he _ wouldn’t_. “I really am proud of you.”

“I’m really drunk,” Jaime admits, “And Sansa says I’m a _ snack_, which is a weird fucking word, but I don’t believe her.”

“Uuum.” Brienne gives him an eye roll that rivals one of Sansa’s. _ Do I confirm? Deny? _

“You should kiss me, if Sansa’s right,” Jaime unfocused gaze brightens at the suggestion, and he brings his other hand to Brienne’s other cheek. “Sansa said you might, if I tried hard enough.”

Jaime’s fingers are warm against her cheeks, and she wouldn’t break eye contact with him for anything. There’s too much revealed there--insecurity, and a longing Brienne’s too skittish to place a name to. _ Sansa told him the truth_, _ although I’m more frightened of what they talk about without me_.

Brienne presses her lips against Jaime’s for the briefest second, dipping into something forbidden and not meant for her. She’s proud of herself, after, because she pulls away before Jaime’s dulled reflexes can even react. _ She’s _had too much wine, and half-hopes Jaime won’t remember any of it tomorrow. Her mind is too fuzzy to combine Jaime’s words and weird behavior from the last week into anything meaningful.

_ Tomorrow. _

“Get under the blankets,” Brienne tells him when he slumps onto the bed, her tone business-like. She turns to go to the kitchen just as Jaime thoughtlessly starts tugging on his clothes. As the Blackwater Brewery pint glass fills with water--Jaime has no regular cups, at least not ones she can find--she hopes it’s safe to turn around.

Jaime’s buried under the blankets when she comes back; at least he listens when he’s drunk.

“Drink this,” she foists it on him, “and go to bed.”

“Yes, ser.”


	6. Would You Tell Me if You Want Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There’s a Blackwater Brewery pint glass filled with water next to his bed, along with two painkillers. Both seem like a blessing from the Seven, so he takes the pills and drains the glass. The water is warm, but Jaime doesn’t care. Then, he realizes he has to piss and stumbles to his bathroom, nearly tripping over his jeans and shoes from the night before._
> 
> _Brienne._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter count has been upped again! I'm pretty confident I'm correct this time. This week's chapter title comes from mitski's song "Come into the Water."
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys this chapter! Thanks, as always, for all the reviews and kudos.

There’s a Blackwater Brewery pint glass filled with water next to his bed, along with two painkillers. Both seem like a blessing from the Seven, so he takes the pills and drains the glass. The water is warm, but Jaime doesn’t care. Then, he realizes he has to piss and stumbles to his bathroom, nearly tripping over his jeans and shoes from the night before.

_ Brienne_.

She’d fucking _ tucked him into bed_, like he was a tall, drunken child. The water was from her, and the medicine, too. Jaime remembers, mortifyingly, pulling off his clothes as she turned red and nearly sprinted into his kitchen. She’d carried him out her door and into his. _ So, so much gentler than any touch from Cersei. _

No, his sister would have let Jaime sleep in the hallway before she did anything as considerate as bundling him under his comforter. She’d probably mock him for the poor showing at holding his drink---thirty-five really _ was _ different than twenty-five.

It’s the last thing Jaime remembers, though, that has him scrambling to find his discarded phone from the pocket of his jeans--Brienne had _ kissed _him.

_ And I’m sure I didn’t hallucinate it! _

Jaime’s typing a text to Sansa before he looks down at the screen and pauses. The text reads _ BRIENNE KISSED ME!!!! _ along with several emoji of a screaming face who’s mortal soul looks like it’s about to leave its body. He _ thinks _ he’s using that one correctly.

“I sound like a fucking teenage girl.”

Jaime backspaces the entire message and retypes: _ We need to reconvene to discuss an updated battle strategy. There’s new intel. _

There. _ Much _better.

Sansa’s replies comes seconds later: _ I KNEW Brienne was being shady af this morning! Meet me at 2 at the usual? _

* * *

Their “usual” is a place filled with yuppie twenty-somethings two blocks down from work. Jaime has two hours before his shift starts, and he buys Sansa some chocolate milkshake coffee concoction that’s covered in whipped cream.

All Jaime does is scrunch up his face at how fucking _ strong _ the coffee is at this place. The coffee is stronger than Brienne, the coffee could _ pick him up and carry him_\--

He dumps three sugars and enough cream in it until it’s beige.

“Why do you drink it if you add so much sugar?” Sansa asks.

“Why do you drink coffee at _ all _ if you need it buried in a milkshake?”

“Keep your opinion on my vices to yourself,” Sansa huffs, “If you want my help.”

“Fine,” Jaime huffs in return, “I’d be useless without my battle commander.” 

_ Half-jest, half-truth. _

“Finally, _ someone _has learned of my value as a life coach. So,” she leans closer, like they’re gossiping, “what kinda kiss was it?”

“_I don’t know_. The kind where the other person kisses you.”

_ Not like Cersei _ \--but Jaime can’t tell Sansa that. Cersei demanded, kissed him like she was tugging on a leash. She kissed him without a thought to how he might feel, like the gesture was masturbatory. _ That _was the most dejected Jaime ever felt, when he realized that.

It was a thought that spiraled easily, too--was that what he _ wanted? _ To feel used_? What the fuck is wrong with me? _And how in the hell had he never noticed that's all it was?

Sansa looks at him expectantly.

"It was...brief," he elaborates, "She'd had wine, as you know. I may have mentioned that you told me I was a _ snack. _"

She _ howls _ with laughter, "Jaime, you _ would_."

"And I think I _ may _ have asked her to do it. It was...oh gods, was it _ motherly_?"

Somehow, that makes Sansa laugh harder. "_Definitely not_. Fall asleep on our couch again and you’ll see how _ motherly _ her feelings are."

Jaime scowls at her, and, for some reason, Cersei telling him to stop being so fucking moody pops into his head. He wants a great many things, and to be pitied was the least among them. Better Brienne be disgusted than pity him.

Although, there was ample time for that, too.

"Listen,” Sansa continues when she realizes his reply is not forthcoming, “You literally have the _ least _self-awareness of any adult I’ve laid eyes on. My fifteen-year-old brother has a better sense of self that you do.”

Well, if Jaime was brooding _ before_, “I don’t need to be lectured by a _ child_\--”

“_Shut up_,” she gestures to him with her straw, “You need to be lectured by _ someone _ with sense, and that someone is me. You are _ obscenely _ attractive, like it’s almost a _ crime_. I’m going to record you next time you’re working. You flirt with _ every single customer_, yet somehow when it’s Brienne you become a caveman.”

“I’m bad at sincerity,” he grumbles. It’s easy to chat with people, and smile, and say something that _ might _ mean more. He doesn’t remember any of them; the only customers that stand out are his friends, and Brienne, who doesn’t even have to order a pint of Wench anymore.

“Brienne doesn’t pity you; pity is death to desire, and _ trust me_, that’s not the case here.”

“Sansa--”

“Do you think I’d lie? She’s my closest friend; I _ want _ her to be happy. Hell, _ I _don’t even pity you.”

“...You’re close, though, aren’t you?”

“Getting there, yeah,” Sansa replies. “Close enough that you’re a wreck instead of a snack. But I think, for Brienne, you’re stupid in _ all _the right ways.”

“What does that even _ mean_?”

Sansa raises her eyebrows, “It means she sees something in you, and she wants you to see it, too. Don’t take her kindness as pity. Brienne wouldn’t pay you the attention she does for pity.”

Jaime isn’t sure he believes Sansa, but he _ wants _to. “So, what my next move?”

Sansa’s grin is utterly devious as she takes a drink from her straw, “Something _ big_. The final assault, if you will.”

* * *

They meet again the next afternoon in Jaime’s living room. Sansa suggests an organic sandwich spot she wants to try, but Jaime vetoes it.

“We’re not planning out my..._seduction _ of Brienne Tarth within earshot of _ anyone_.”

_ Also, Sansa will eat through my sizable Lannister savings if I keep treating her to food. _ Making a college student, even a Stark, pay for _ anything _ when he’s a grown-ass man seems unconscionable. 

“_Pffft. _ You said _ seduction_.”

“I know what I said.”

_ If Tywin Lannister could be a fly on the wall right now. _ His father’s head would probably explode; or he’d think that his eldest son had been possessed by an alien. Or, he wouldn’t even recognize Jaime. The last one sounds best.

Sansa notices that he’s grinning, “You’re in an uncommonly good mood.”

“I was thinking about my father."

“_Ewwww_. Why? I’ve only met him once, but I try and put it out of my mind.”

_ Don’t we all_. “I...just wanted to spite him, before, but I kinda feel like I’m figuring my shit out.”

“Good,” She holds out her hand for a high-five, and Jaime obliges. “I made a list during class of seduction ideas.”

“...You know you’re paying money to learn?” _ Not that I’m the one to criticize. _

“Okay, Mr. Daddy-Bought-My-Degree,” Sansa slaps her notebook on the table, “Arya helped me with some of these over lunch.”

“...You’re soliciting help from your knife-loving little sister?”

“She’s hooking up with Gendry,” Sansa shrugs, “I thought she might be helpful. Arya told me to tell you that Brienne could break you in half with her bare hands.”

“Gendry _ throws axes _ for fun, Sansa,” Jaime rubs at his temples, “Let’s see this fucking thing.”

  * __Challenge her to a sword fight.__

“Arya put that one on the list, didn’t she?”

“She did.”

Jaime reads on.

  * __Cook while wearing nothing but an apron__
  * _Buy some edible underwear_
  * _Serenade her outside her window with a lute_
  * _That porn thing involving a pizza box_
  * _Drape yourself over her couch like the illustrations from that Lysene sex position book_
  * _Just get in her bed naked and wait_

“This...you two were just putting shit down at the end, weren’t you?”

“Yeah...we got a bit off topic.”

“Brienne thought I was mocking her when I brought her flowers,” Jaime shakes his head. _ Not that I think I could pull off any of these. _

“The sexy couch lounging might work; she’s pretty thirsty.”

Not for the first time, Sansa’s assessment of Brienne makes his brain short circuit. 

“..._.Thirsty?” _

“Yeaaaaah,” Sansa pats him on the shoulder, “Just do what feels right in your heart

* * *

Jaime decides to solicit some male advice, just for diversity in perspective.

He shares a shift with Gendry a couple days later; he’s taking bar stools down off tables before they open.

“Gendry, how’d you get together together with Arya?”

“Suddenly interested in my personal life, gramps? You’re too old for her friends.”

_ I’m too old for everything; Brienne included. _

“I was just...curious.”

“Axe throwing practice. She told me I was hot, so we went on a date.”

_ Utterly useless. _

* * *

Against his better judgement, Jaime asks Bronn later that night; of course, Bronn fucking _ laughs_.

“Lannister, I pick from the women you ignore every night after they stop throwing themselves at the bar. Why the _ fuck _ would I give a cunt like you tips? Just _ exist_.”

“I’m not Tyrion,” Jaime protests, “I don’t even pay attention to the customers.”

“Ah, you’re after a _ specific _woman.”

“...Maybe.”

“Have I seen her?”

“Probably,” Jaime answers, “She comes here, sometimes, with her friends.”

Bronn stares at him, “The Wench. Looks like she could break you like a toothpick. She hangs with the Starks, and that Tyrell girl.”

“Is it _ that _ obvious?”

“You get a dopey fucking look on your face,” Bronn claps him on the back, “And she never actually orders a drink. You just _ know _ what to bring her.”

“Her name’s Brienne.”

“_Hmmm_. Brienne,” Bronn repeats, nodding, “I’d fuck her--could be a ride.”

“Stay away from her,” Jaime snaps, and regrets so instantly. _ Jealousy_. Cersei accused him of the emotion--long before she’d given him any reason to be. When she’d married Robert, it incensed him to the point of madness, until his sister took him to bed and convinced him otherwise. _ It’s just a formality, _ Cersei said, _ it doesn’t change that we’re one. Nothing can change that. _

_ She _ changed that, though, and there was no jealousy left in him by the time the truth was out. Cersei was a stranger, and had always hid the truth of herself from him. Robert hadn’t even been the one that mattered.

Bronn laughs even harder, and Jaime can’t blame him for the reaction. Jaime would laugh, too, if someone stuck his foot in his mouth like he just had. 

“_Damn_, I’ve never seen you mad. Do you need to go piss on something to stake your claim?”

“Fuck off,” Jaime turns to get more glasses ready for the inevitable rush of people who will come in soon. 

“You know, I _ can _fire you.”

“...But you won’t.”

Jaime pays attention, that night, because his aptitude isn’t his job security, nor is his mouthy attitude with his boss. Bronn won’t fire him because he’s good with customers.

He’s prone to just blurting the first observation that comes to mind--when a woman asks him to choose something from the tap list, Jaime looks at her and guesses based on her clothes, or the tilt of her head. The woman is nothing special--pretty with dark eyes and dark hair, but she _ giggles _ when Jaime passes her their newest honey ale.

The woman touches his hand over the glass, and looks up at him through her dark lashes.

“What time do you get off?” she whispers.

_ She’d come home with me_. _ I don’t want her to, but she would_. Jaime smiles at her, and he knows _ that _ works because she giggles again.

He leans in, chuckles along with her, leaves his hand on the glass a beat too long. “Late, unfortunately.”

“A shame,” the woman replies, “I’ll message you.”

Jaime’s relieved, then, because social media _ still _ baffles him, and she’ll never find him. There’s another woman, another tap recommendation, another tip. _ This is what Cersei does _ \--she plays a game to get what she wants. Jaime has been playing his own version without knowing. He’d never _ needed _ to flirt with Cersei; his sister could raise one eyebrow, and it said _ come here and fuck me_, and Jaime would do anything she asked. He thought the power was reciprocal, and she let him believe the illusion because it suited her ends.

Brienne’s not like that, though--if Jaime wants her, he’ll have to work for her, and better than he’s been doing. He can’t raise an eyebrow at her and expect her to _ know_. 

* * *

It’s worse, the next night, when Brienne and Sansa _ do _ show up. Bronn grins at him before he starts talking to Brienne, who blushes, splotchy under her freckles, and looks _ utterly _confused.

_Mine_, Jaime thinks, _but she won’t be if can’t tell her_. The urge to drag Bronn away from her nearly overwhelms him, and the emotion is not a flattering one. Bronn flirts with Brienne better than he does, and he’s just trying to give Jaime shit. Brienne’s an undiscovered secret, and Bronn’s not serious about his intentions, but he highlights a real issue: _someone_ will be. Someone else will notice her eyes, and how wonderful she is at cooking lessons, and how gentle she is, and the victory of earning a smile from her.

And she’ll go to some other _ him_, not her idiot neighbor, Jaime Lannister, who half-needs a babysitter, who falls asleep on her couch and shrinks all his undershirts.

“Bronn, don’t give her too much shit,” Jaime rests his elbows on the bar next to Bronn. Then, Jaime smiles at her--the same smile that earns him tips. “Hi, Brienne.”

“H-Hi, Jaime,” she stumbles.

“We’ve got new stuff,” Jaime leans close enough that Brienne scoots back. “Do you trust me?”

_ Bronn is nothing_. I’m _ making her blush. _ Brienne kissed _ him_. The confidence, even unearned, is a heady thing; he’s never chased someone, but he can learn.

“You should trust him,” Sansa replies, grinning at Jaime, “He hasn’t lead you astray yet. I’ll take whatever you recommend, too.”

“Six Maids in a Pool,” Jaime returns with two pints of the IPA. Then, lower, “Tyrion got drunk and violated his _ own _non-disclosure agreement to Bronn, hence, the name.”

“It’s just _ Florian and Jonquil _ all _ over _ the place lately, isn’t it?” Sansa lilts, looking from Jaime to Brienne.

“It’s a good book,” she replies. Brienne’s hand is warm against his when he holds onto the glass until she looks him in the eye.

* * *

Sansa’s latest text reads: _ Quote the damn book if you have to. Find a line that speaks to you and blurt it, _ followed by several winking emoji blowing kisses. 

_ You make it sound easy_. Jaime chooses a frowning face that matches his mood.

_ It is! Use your key, wait for Brienne to get home, and be the snack I know you can be! _

Jaime doesn’t know how to respond to _ that_, so he groans in frustration and throws his phone on his bed. _ I deserve this, for being an idiot and listening to Sansa. _Or for being a grown man who can’t express his feelings to a woman without using plays from a stupid romance novel.

“Why can’t I just ask her on a fucking date? That’s _ normal_, right?”

Of course, Jaime’s empty apartment holds no answers. 

Actions are one thing--he can take Brienne’s hand, bump his knee against hers under the dinner table, sit a _bit_ closer than to her on her couch. It delights Jaime every time she sputters, delights him more when she _doesn’t_ startle and leans into him a bit.

He thinks of Sansa’s fucking list--_ drape yourself over her couch like the illustrations from that Lysene sex position book. _ Jaime _ doesn’t _ do that, if only because it could backfire, but he does sit sideways on Brienne and Sansa’s couch, _ Florian and Jonquil _resting on his bent knees.

"_I love you," Florian told her, wrapped his arms around Jonquil and held her close, inhaled the sweet scent of her hair. "The sun rises in the east and sets in the west for you alone." _

_ He'd been a fool to push her away, and Jonquil tells him so. _

Jaime isn’t sure when he dozed off, but when he wakes, Brienne is perched on the coffee table, knees crunched against her torso due to her height. Her hair obscures her features, and she’s flipping through his copy of _ Florian and Jonquil_, stopping on pages where Jaime turned the corners down.

“You’re like a stray cat,” Brienne muses as she turns a page, “Sleep on our furniture, eat our food.”

Jaime blinks at her blearily, runs a hand over his face to try and comport himself.

“Do we need to get a litterbox for you?”

"_What _\--"

“Is this is your preferred napping spot?”

"Your couch calls to me, I guess," he says instead, stretching against the cushions and grinning at her. _ Was she watching me sleep? _ Jaime tries his best to look inviting, thinks of Jonquil’s large, brown bedroom eyes, and how Florian always, _ always _ comes to her. 

The smirk has some effect; Brienne flushes, and her blue eyes dart back to the book; "You’re an active reader. Lots of corners folded."

“It’s...not a bad book, ignoring the fact that Tyrion wrote it.” _ She'll see a pattern, if only she's looking for it. _

“It’s romantic,” Brienne sounds wistful, thumbs to another one of the sections he’d marked. Jaime watches her track the words across the page. “Florian’s very demonstrative, as you’ve noted.”

“He’s good with words,” Jaime agrees, “Tyrion _ would _get that part right.”

_ Much better than me_.

“Deeds, too,” Brienne opens to another page, avoiding Jaime’s eyes, even though he's openly staring. “He gives her flowers, and wine.”

“Florian’s trying to show her he cares, that he’s grateful. Maybe Jonquil thinks he’s a cad, and a fool, and unworthy, but--”

Brienne looks straight at him, straight _ through _him, "What makes Florian think he's so unworthy?"

"He's a landless knight, and his armor is crappy, and he's kinda an idiot," Jaime blurts, "Jonquil has her shit together."

“Maybe, but she longs for something,” Brienne flips through the book, finds the page she’s looking for easily. "'Jonquil dreamed, sometimes, of a knight who would come and share her burdens, who would notice the things she kept hidden.'"

_ How many times has she read it? _

“It’s why she invites him into the water,” Jaime suddenly feels breathless. The intimacy of that scene, his quest for something of his own.

“Her sisters run screaming, out of propriety,” Brienne whispers, “There’s something about Florian that draws her to him, something mirrored in herself."

“_Loneliness_.”

"Jonquil is beautiful, though, which means she can have what she wants.” 

“That’s not what Florian’s looking at.” Only, what Jaime means is _ that’s not what I’m looking at. _ It seemed like a lifetime ago that Jaime looked at Brienne and thought she was unattractive, or homely, or awkward--she’s so much _ more _ to him, now. 

She lets out a laugh that’s nearly a snort, “_Okay_. Florian has no interest in her _ milky white skin_, or her _ heaving bosom_, or _ however _ your brother describes her ass.”

Jaime grins, “_Pert_, I think, like five times at least.”

She flips more pages, “_Pert globes, _ page eighty-eight.”

“Are we over-hyping this book? Maybe Tyrion sucks and is just capitalizing on our…”

“..._Frustrations_.”

The word lingers between them. Brienne leans forward, and Jaime pushes himself up on his elbows to get a bit closer to her. He looks down, takes stock of himself, clothes twisted from napping. Maybe he’d done what Sansa suggested inadvertently--made a scene for Brienne to arrive home to.

“I’m draped on your couch,” Jaime says, low, “Like Jonquil. _ Waiting_.”

“She does quite a lot of that, doesn’t she? Wardrobe malfunctions,” Brienne puts the book aside and reaches for him, adjusting his shirt where it’s askew. “I can’t leave you alone for a minute.”

_ Does she sound fond? _Her cheeks are flushed.

Jaime grabs her hand before she can skitter away. _ Warm_. Jaime wants more of it, more of _ her_, desperately. It might be the most acute thing he’s ever felt, his desire for Brienne to put her hands back on him.

“There’s a line, on page 218,” Jaime decides to power through the embarrassment, “I thought of you when I read it.”

Brienne’s still sitting on the edge of the coffee table, knees brushing the couch cushions. Jaime sits up, curls his fingers around hers. She reaches for the book, and together they manage to open it on her knees. Jaime holds the page as Brienne reads along.

“_Jaime_,” Brienne looks back to him, her wide-eyed expression almost looks hurt. “Don’t--don’t _ jest_. People don’t _ say _ shit like this aloud, especially not to _ me_.”

“Don’t you wish someone would, though?”

“_Yes_,” Brienne replies, sincere, “It’s cheesy, and dumb, but--”

“...You still want to hear it,” Jaime finishes. _ Gods, I have to say the horrible lines aloud now, don’t I? _"Let me make love to you so thoroughly they’ll write a song of your pleasure, my lady."

The _ look _Brienne gives him, though--shock, with an underpinning of desire. Jaime will read the whole book aloud to put that expression on her face. 

"Oh _ gods_, it gets worse: ‘Bards will pen new songs about my deeds between your thighs--’" she continues. " _ How _ does Florian say this stuff? _ So _ cringy, but--"

"It _ works_," Jaime interrupts, "And the feeling, when you read it, don’t you _ want _ it?" The _ rush_, the closeness. To have Brienne touch him, and _ watch_, and to hold him after. To share that with another person. 

"_Yes._"

“You’re the best person I’ve ever met,” Jaime continues, “Hard to flirt with, or maybe that’s my skill level--”

“As though, _ you_, Jaime Lannister, would need to flirt to get _ anyone_.”

“....Because I’m a snack?”

Brienne rolls her eyes, “_Yes_. An insufferable one.” She looks down to the page again, whispers the line to herself, barely audible. “Tyrion hasn’t any clue how real people speak.”

Jaime squeezes her fingers, puts his other hand over hers atop the book and rests his head against Brienne’s. “Horrible, flowery prose,” he leans closer yet, “Completely out of touch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a mean spot to end on, and I am not sorry. Leave a comment and tell me how angry you are!


	7. I Know I Kissed You Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Does everyone have completely stupid thoughts in moments like this?_
> 
> _Strange details stand out to Brienne when Jaime kisses her. His lips are dry. His beard tickles. There was uncertainty in his expression, a tiny crease between his brows, like he’s afraid of being rebuked. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands--not that she’s had numerous chances to learn. Jaime’s also completely sober and in full possession of his faculties, and he’s still kissing her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so fluffy, guys!
> 
> Thanks, as usual, for the response to this fanciful idea of a story.
> 
> Let me know what you think, and if you want to hear me shrieking on tumblr, [here I am](https://kurikaesu-haru.tumblr.com/).

_ Does everyone have completely stupid thoughts in moments like this? _

Strange details stand out to Brienne when Jaime kisses her. His lips are dry. His beard tickles. There was uncertainty in his expression, a tiny crease between his brows, like he’s afraid of being rebuked. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands--not that she’s had numerous chances to learn. Jaime’s also completely sober and in full possession of his faculties, and he’s _ still _ kissing her. 

_ Would touching his hair be weird? _

Probably. _ Definitely_.

They’re still holding hands atop _ Florian and Jonquil _ where it’s resting on her knees.

And it’s fanciful, but when Jaime takes his hand and ghosts it over her jaw, Brienne leans into the contact and wants to fucking_ swoon_. She gives into the impulse to touch him, puts the book aside and slides her hands into his hair. Jaime murmurs something against her lips, tilts his head, and Brienne can think of _ lots _ of flowery, overly verbose language to describe the feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Every dumb thing she’s read is _ true _ \--the cadence of her heart feels loud enough that Jaime must be able to hear it, and she’s afraid to open her eyes lest it break whatever madness has overcome him while reading _ Florian and Jonquil_. Her limited experience with Hyle was tinged with his guilt over the bet, or her idea that _ something _ was better than nothing. 

_ “Brienne_.”

Her name breaks the spell, and she realizes, horrified, that now she has to _ look _ at Jaime--to reckon with _ Florian and Jonquil_, and _ feelings_. Vulnerable ones that can easily be turned on her.

“_Um_,” she replies, and then shuts her mouth. _ I probably look like a fool, slack jawed and bovine. _ Her face feels like she’s staring into an open oven. There was a moment where she forgot herself, but she _ certainly _remembers everything now. Every awkward, ill-fitting--

“Sansa’s going to lose her fucking mind,” Jaime flops onto the couch, arms across the back, “She told me I act like a caveman around you.” The smug smirk he’s wearing is going to _ end _ her.

“I...don’t think you’ve _ ever _ acted like a caveman,” Brienne stumbles, “A manchild, maybe, but you’re always cha--”

Jaime’s smirk becomes even _ more _ self-satisfied, “You were going to call me _ charming_.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You’re a bad liar, Brienne.” 

She wants to protest, but her face shows her feelings plain as day, “_ Fine_.”

“And we kissed. _ Twice_.”

They’re not touching anymore, and it seems a crime, to have that contact for such a brief period. Brienne doesn’t even know how to go about restarting it--the few inches between them seems like a vast gulf. 

“Sansa…?” _ Have the two of them been scheming? _ Brienne can believe they would team up, but not over _ her_.

“She’s been helping my sorry ass,” Jaime laughs, “I guess Tyrion helped, too, in a way.”

“Scenes from the book,” Brienne touches the cover, “For _ me_?”

“Lame, right?” Jaime’s grin falls a bit.

“N-no! I--I just don’t know what to _ do _\--” 

“You don’t need to _ do _anything,” Jaime pats the couch, “Come here.” 

Brienne listens, goes to him and sits on the edge of the couch. She’s half falling off the cushion, but it doesn’t matter when Jaime embraces her. Cramped quarters means more contact, and if she clings to him a little, hopefully Jaime won’t mind. She sighs; Jaime notices and chuckles, holding her tighter for it.

“Brienne, can we…go out?” It feels like Jaime’s holding his breath. “You’re better than me, but I make you laugh, and you already know how inept I am.”

“_Better than_?” Brienne marvels, shaking her head against his shoulder. _ How can he think that? _“...Tomorrow?”

“Are you just trying to get me to drive you to the farmer’s market?”

“....No.”

“I don’t mind,” Jaime whispers into her ear, and she shivers, “Do I have to wait until then to…?”

When Sansa unlocks the door a few minutes later, she sees them on the couch, drops her bag, and shrieks.

* * *

“The two of _ you_,” Sansa points at them, “Sit on opposite ends of the couch.”

Brienne, used to her roommate’s bossiness, listens. The command puts some distance between Jaime and her, and, while Brienne doesn’t _ want _ that, it might be for the best. Sansa busting through the door feels keenly like getting caught by her father--a teenage experience she missed _ entirely_.

So, Brienne presses herself against the arm of the couch, and wills her face to not feel like it’s gone up in flames.

Meanwhile, Jaime scowls and crosses his arms. _ Petulant, _ Brienne thinks, _he’s moping at being interrupted_. 

“The two of you are _ cruel_,” Sansa affects a tone of mock-offense, “To consummate your relationship without telling me the fruits of my labor proved successful.”

Brienne emits a strangled noise at the word _ consummate_, while Jaime starts laughing. 

"I didn't take you for a voyeur, Sansa," Jaime says.

"A courtesy text," Sansa replies, "would have been enough."

"And what emoji would've been appropriate?"

"Kissy faces. An eggplant. A thumbs up,” Sansa makes the choices sound utterly obvious. “I could've hung out with Arya longer, reveling in the knowledge that the two of you were here, making out like teenagers left without parental supervision for the first time."

“We weren’t--” Brienne interjects, “Not like teenagers.”

Jaime raises an eyebrow at her as Sansa sits on the vacant cushion between them, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. “As the adult here--do we need to have a talk?”

“_No_.”

“Good. Since Jaime’s our unofficial third roommate, we need to set some ground rules,” she tugs both of them closer to her, “Sock on the door handle, or something. Sex is part of a healthy relationship, but I don’t need a show.”

Both Sansa _ and _ Jaime start laughing; Brienne is too embarrassed at the topic to join in. Lines from _ Florian and Jonquil _ bounce through her mind, and she _ really _ doesn’t want to think about Jaime and sex in _ any _combination while Sansa is sitting between them, spouting innuendo.

“We’ll be good,” Jaime counters.

“Now, as punishment, Jaime’s buying pizza. Brienne, come with me to pick it up.”

Brienne stands up from the couch as Jaime hands Sansa cash from his wallet.

* * *

“You’re afraid he’s lying.”

It’s the first thing Sansa says to her when they’re out on the sidewalk. When Brienne doesn't respond immediately, she continues, "The guilt of the thought is eating at you, but you're thinking it."

"...Yes." Brienne hates this aspect of herself--the part that's quick to distrust. Just because people were cruel to her, once, doesn't mean everyone will be. It doesn't mean Jaime will be. She's being unfair by expecting the blow to come. It hurts her when people expect the worst from her without any reason. 

"He's not," Sansa stops at the end of the block while they wait for the signal to change. "Trust _ me _ if you can't trust him yet."

"I trust him."

It comes out easily, and that feels good.

Sansa smiles, "I spend more time hanging out with Jaime alone than you do. He talks about you_ a lot. _ Either how to flirt with you, or just bringing you up without noticing."

"... Really?"

The light changes, and they start walking. 

"Brienne, he's an _ idiot_."

"He's not, though." 

"Snippy," Sansa teases, "I don't mean like...academic intelligence. He's an idiot emotionally; it must be his _ excellent _ Lannister upbringing."

"I...am not going to argue with that."

Jaime reminds her of when she was little and her father asked her to clean her room. Wanting to go outside and pretend a stick was a sword, Brienne would stuff everything in her closet. It _ looked _ clean, but more than a cursory glance revealed the truth. All her father had to do was open the door, and a wreck of shit would pour out--socks, action figures, snack wrappers.

What Brienne _ hasn't _ quite figured is what Jaime is keeping in that closet. 

“Listen,” Sansa continues, “You’re my closest friend. I want you to be happy, more than anything.“

“I know.” 

“Jaime has my stamp of approval,” Sansa gives her a thumbs up. “You suit each other, and I feel good knowing that such a snack is going to a friend.”

“_Sansa_.” Brienne doesn’t try to hide her exasperation. That word is going to _ haunt _her, isn’t it?

“Just, you know, _ use him wisely_. And maybe keep teaching him to cook.”

_ I’ll pick you up from work in my awesome car_. The text is followed by three smiling emoji wearing sunglasses. 

_ My co-workers will wonder, again, about the rich jackass in the parking lot. _ Brienne _ doesn’t _use any emoji because she is a grown woman and has to maintain the high ground on something,

Brienne can see nearly her entire text conversation with Jaime without scrolling--every text is perfunctory, logistical. In the three months they’ve known each other, the most recent text is the first to contain an emoji. She’s seen his text conversations with Sansa--a collage of emojis and gifs and exclamation points that Brienne can read in their respective voices. 

She changes in the bathroom before she leaves the building--not to be fancier, there was no point in that, but to be _ fresher_, different. She folds her pants and blouse and shoves them in her tote bag, catches her appearance in the mirror and sees that she’s still Brienne--freckled, blue-eyed, tall enough that she almost can’t see the top of her reflection. She takes her hair down, tilts her head to the side.

_ It’s just Jaime_. _ Neighbor Jaime. He knows what I look like_.

“Your knight is here again,” Jon tells her as he pushes the glass door open, “With the hair. And the car.”

“_Shut up_.”

“You’re not surprised this time,” Jon guesses, “You _ were _the first three.”

“No,” Brienne looks out into the parking lot; Jaime waves from where he’s leaning against his car. “We’re…it’s a date, I think.”

Jon holds out his hand, and Brienne gives him a high-five.

“Good for you, Brienne. I’m, um, a little envious.”

“...Thanks.

* * *

Jaime rambles when he’s nervous.

They’ve been in the car for five minutes, and Brienne’s pretty sure he’s only stopped talking to intake air. He’s telling her a childhood story about Tyrion involving trying to climb into a lion enclosure at the King’s Landing Zoo. There’s other signs--he fiddles needlessly with the air conditioning and the radio, and he taps his fingers on the gear shift. 

When Brienne’s nervous, she clams up completely, so it’s fortuitous that Jaime gives her no room to interject. _ Or, he thinks I’m not listening. _

“Sorry,” Jaime blurts when he runs out of steam. “That story was boring, and I’m totally rambling. You probably zoned out five minutes ago.”

“No, I was listening,” Brienne wrings her hands in her lap, “I never know what to say when I’m nervous.” Not that she would wow anyone with her social graces on the best of days.

“I, apparently, never know what _ not _ to say.”

They pass the rest of the drive in silence. Brienne isn’t charming, or witty enough to carry on an engaging conversation.

“Does this...feel like we’re just running an errand?” Brienne asks when they park. Her plan, in theory, was choosing an activity she was familiar. Sitting in the type of upscale restaurant Jaime was _ surely _used to would make her feel like hyperventilating.

“As long as it’s _ really _not just a ploy to fill my trunk with vegetables.”

“Will you be upset if that happens inadvertently?”

Jaime smiles, “I never cleaned out the leaves from last time.”

It’s summer, so the market is sprawling, tents and booths spread out on the grass. Usually, Brienne visits the same vendors, gets what she needs, and leaves. She nearly does the same today, except she’s on a _ date _with Jaime Lannister, who walks around the farmer’s market like he’s not from a hundred generations of blue blood. 

A corner of her mind she doesn’t like to give credence to whispers _ everyone is looking at you, next to him, and laughing_. The few times she’d gone out with Hyle felt like this--she’s a spectacle, regardless of who she is standing next to. Hyle was half-a-head shorter, which added to the scene. Jaime is so handsome that the effect must be the same. Maybe worse, even.

Jaime doesn’t notice--he smells soaps and tries samples of food and looks at craft booths. He gives a running commentary on all of it, chats effortlessly with anyone, and Brienne trails behind him like a surly giant.

“You’re an impulse buyer,” she tells him as her canvas tote bag fills with purchases.

“That candymaker from Essos was trying really hard to make a sale,” Jaime crosses his arms, “And you wanted the fruit. And the soap. You like feminine things, even when you won’t admit it.”

Brienne rarely buys girly things out of embarrassment; Sansa noticed that about her, too.

“The smell reminds me of Tarth.” Like sea salt and ocean air.

“Then I’m glad I bought it for you.”

She looks at the soap sitting atop the other purchases. _ A gift_. 

“Jaime, you’re having fun, right?”

“Do I seem like I’m not?”

“No, but--” _ I’m not fun to be around. _

Jaime cuts her off by taking her hand; Brienne doesn’t try to pull back. _ No one is paying attention to us_. It doesn’t matter how awkward she feels.

“I always have fun with you,” Jaime sounds a bit bashful. “Lannister family outings never include stuff like this. My family isn’t..._ warm_,” he squeezes her hand, “but you are.”

* * *

They’re _ dating_.

Well, they’ve gone on dates--five of them, to be specific. 

Brienne doesn’t know when _ going on dates _ becomes _ dating_, and when that repeats enough that it’s appropriate to introduce the other person as a significant other. Her father calls her, and Brienne omits Jaime entirely simply because she doesn’t have the language to describe what’s transpiring. She’s also a bit wary of the questions her father would ask.

She’s picked all their dates so far--the farmer’s market, an art exhibit that turned out to be abstract and excruciatingly boring, breakfast at a new bakery on the Street of Flour. They even went bowling, although not alone--something Brienne hadn’t done in at least a decade, and Jaime confessed to having _ never _ tried.

Sansa looked at him in disbelief. _ “Never?” _

“Never,” Jaime repeated, “Imagine Tywin Lannister wearing _ rented _ shoes. Imagine him taking his children to a place where shoes are _ rented_. No combination of those things would _ ever _ happen.”

“Is there not some...rich people bowling alley?”

“_No_,” Sansa and Jaime answered in chorus.

Rented shoes aside, Jaime was weirdly good. Sansa, with the lowest score, kept muttering “beginner’s luck” as his lead increased. 

Sometimes, Brienne forgets the shifting nature of their relationship--like when they’re hanging out with Sansa in their apartment, or if she visits Jaime at work. He chooses a beer for her, or helps them cook, or watches bad television. They’re friends, still, and Brienne _ likes _ that. The friendship is why she trusts Jaime; it’s why she cares about him.

When they’re alone, though, Jaime’s _ always _ touching her. He takes her hand when they walk, or rests it on her knee when they’re sitting next to each other. It’s a myriad of small gestures--resting his chin on her shoulder, a hand on her back, sitting close enough that their legs press together. Brienne feels like her heart can’t handle all the contact, like it's going to stutter its way out of her chest. She startles, sometimes, and Jaime _ smirks_, then repeats whatever the action happens to be.

Brienne wishes she could reverse the dynamic--to make Jaime blush and stumble over his words, to make him feel like his blood is boiling in his veins. _ It’s desire_, she tells herself, _ you want him, and it's bad_. It’s the best, worst part, the delightful frustration, like reading _ Florian and Jonquil_, only there’s a tangible outlet for the heat that dwells within her.

Her nervousness entertains him. The first time Jaime tries to kiss her in public, on a Sunday morning in broad daylight, Brienne nearly pushes him away. _ No one would do this where others can see _ ; _ not with me. _

“Should I not?” he whispers into her ear, his cheek pressed against hers.

“W-why would you _ want _ to?” She’s kind to him, so he likes her--Brienne can believe that. She can even understand doing it behind closed doors, away from the judgement of onlookers. To tell the world, though, by kissing her in _ public_.

“Because I’m attracted to you.”

Brienne’s response is a tiny “_oh_.”

Jaime pulls back, looks her in the eye, “Did you think I...wasn’t?”

“It’s one thing...in the apartment.”_ Gods, that sounds so stupid. It’s just me being ridiculous_.

“I _ always _ want to. Venue doesn’t change that.” Jaime’s flirtatious smirk turns somber, and he looks uncertain. “But I won’t...if you don’t like it.”

_ An affair _ ; _ his last relationship was a secret. _Brienne doesn’t ask too many questions about Jaime’s past, just gathers the tidbits he offers to put together a picture. Jaime hasn’t been treated well, and it shows in tiny ways-- his bouts of anxiousness, and the way he talks about himself. 

“G-go ahead. I want you to.”

There’s a bounce in Jaime’s step when he kisses her, and Brienne can only wonder _ who would be cruel to you? _

* * *

“Have you fucked him yet?”

It’s Margaery who asks the question, over a week later, seated at a high top at Blackwater Brewery_. _She gestures to Jaime across the open room with her hand that isn’t holding her glass.

“_Margaery_,” Sansa leans in and whispers, “Don’t ask her that.”

“_ What? _It’s the endgame, right?”

“That _ doesn’t _mean you should just ask.”

“Why not? We’re friends.”

Sansa sounds exasperated, “Not everyone falls into bed with a guy after five minutes.”

“For Jaime Lannister, I would. He might be having a mid-life crisis, but it hasn’t quelled the thirst of the masses.”

_ It’s true, _ Brienne glances over at the bar. _ He’s talking to a woman right now_. 

“Brienne has nothing to worry about,” Sansa pats her on the arm, an apology for Margaery. Later, Sansa will lament that their friend doesn’t know when to shut up.

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here.” She’s scowling, and doesn’t try to mask her irritation. 

“If you’re not getting any, at least tell me the dates are extravagant?”

“We just...hang out, I guess? He lives next door, so...”

“No _ mystery_,” she waves her hand in a vague gesture, “I don’t want a man who’s seen me in my pajamas before we’ve slept together.”

_ Margaery’s pajamas are probably all lingerie. _

Sansa laughs, “Well, _ that _ ship has sailed.”

* * *

Brienne decides to stay put when Margaery and Sansa move on to another bar. 

"I'll see you at home," Sansa tells her--the unspoken conversation between them is that Brienne has had enough of Margaery. 

"Stay safe.”

The Blackwater empties as midnight approaches; Brienne moves to the bar and switches to water.

"Waiting for your man?" Bronn teases her, "So _ cute_."

"Shut up."

"Charming, as ever." Bronn turns to Jaime, "You, the one pining over there. I'm feeling generous, so you can leave."

The summer evening is a bit cool as they walk to Jaime's car. 

"You didn't have to wait."

"I did," Brienne replies, "I can only handle so much Margaery Tyrell in one night."

"I thought she was your friend?"

"She is, but that doesn't mean there's not a threshold."

The parking lot Jaime uses is a couple blocks away; he links his arm with hers and talks to her about customers as they walk. Margaery's wrong--Brienne’s not worried about women at the bar. Other things, sure, but not that.

She's half-listening when Jaime stops, mid-stride, in the parking lot.

"Brother."

She's leaning against the car, arms crossed, and Brienne double-takes because Jaime has stood in that exact pose, leaning against the driver door, so many times. Brienne knows who it is, immediately, would've known even if she hadn't spoken. 

Jaime's posture goes completely rigid, his arm still linked with hers. It feels like the air temperature dropped ten degrees, which is absurd. Even Jaime's tone is one she's never heard.

"Cersei." 

She smiles, completely unfriendly, "You've lasted twice as long on your own as I predicted. You look like a mess, but you must be _ quite _proud of yourself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow is clearly bisexual. I think it works lol.
> 
> I'm so rude for leaving all of you with another cliffhanger.


	8. I Can't Move Until You Show Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You're petulant," she replies, "Father will forgive you, though, if you come home. I will, too."_
> 
> _Cersei's offer is a reprieve--a return to a mindless before where Jaime didn't have to struggle against his limitations. He could retreat in the familiarity of being paraded around. What was all that discomfort for, then? He'd learned so much about himself in the last year. He'd been alone with his thoughts, reflecting. Growing._
> 
> _"I don't need forgiven; I didn't do anything wrong."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the continuation of Cersei depositing herself in the narrative.
> 
> As usual, thank you for all the kind comments and kudos!

Cersei leaning against his car doesn’t shock him; Jaime wasn’t fool enough to think that she didn’t know where he was. A new phone number and a move weren’t enough to conceal his identity. He wasn’t trying to vanish, anyway--he was trying to _ change_. She and their father believed Jaime was having a tantrum--give him a few months, and he would come strolling back in, the fit of _ whatever _ he was going through having spent itself out. 

Tywin was patient--he would wait Jaime out, confident that his heir would return when he pulled the right strings. Let Jaime _ think _ he had autonomy. Cersei was _ much _ less so. Jaime hadn’t returned in a timeframe she found acceptable, so she came to collect him.

"I haven't contacted you for a reason.”

"You're petulant," she replies, "Father will forgive you, though, if you come home. I will, too."

Cersei's offer is a reprieve--a return to a mindless _ before _ where Jaime didn't have to struggle against his limitations. He could retreat in the familiarity of being paraded around. _ What was all that discomfort for, then? _ He'd learned _ so _ much about himself in the last year. He'd been alone with his thoughts, reflecting. _ Growing_.

"I don't need forgiven; I didn't do anything wrong."

Cersei scoffs, "Other than disgracing our house by doing..._ whatever _ this is."

_ Living. _ Seeing new shit. Making friends. _ Brienne_. She hasn’t spoken, would never interject herself in this kind of conversation, but she’s gripping his elbow. She must be confused, but she’s offering her silent support, regardless. 

_ Will she still offer it once she knows the truth? _

“I’m good.” 

Surprise on Cersei is a subtle thing--she raises her eyebrows and purses her lips; the way she’s crossing her arms shifts. Her eyes say _ come here_, and Jaime is ready to defy her. He’d imagined her coming to him a hundred times, all the ways he would refuse her. Brienne’s hand on his elbow grounds him, helps, but he doesn’t _ need _it.

And that--_ that _ feels fucking amazing.

“_This _ is good? she gestures at him, “You _ know _ you can’t do without me.”

“I have been--really well, actually,” Jaime replies, “You made your choice, so I made mine.”

“_I _ make our choices. I think this dalliance is telling as to _ why_.”

Brienne will _ know_, if Cersei keeps talking. _ Then, what will she do? _

“Leave him be.” Brienne sounds like an immovable rock wall. “I don’t know what’s going on, but if Jaime doesn’t want to see you, you should leave.”

Cersei’s answering laugh is cruel and familiar. “The things you choose for yourself are _ certainly _interesting.” She stops leaning on the car and turns away. “I’m not as patient as father, Jaime; I’ll visit again.”

* * *

They're silent on the drive back.

“Brienne,” he finally breaks the silence once they’re nearly to their building. “I know it’s late, but can we...talk for a bit?”

She looks at him, nods, “Always.”

They fall silent again, until they’re seated on opposite ends of his couch. Brienne sits first, and it’s Jaime who creates the distance. _ She’ll want it, in a minute. _

“Can I...tell you about the woman I left?”

“You don’t owe me your past just because we’re...”

_ Something_. _ We’re something_. Something he wants more of, something bright and warm and untouched by the spectre of Cersei. To know what he wants and not to wonder if the opinion is polluted by her voice in his head. No matter how Brienne reacts, Jaime has that, and he figured it out all on his own.

“I may not owe it to you,” Jaime takes a deep breath, “but I’ll offer it to you.”

“Okay.”

Jaime looks at the dark screen of his television as he speaks. “The woman I left; it’s Cersei.”

Brienne doesn’t respond for a long time. Jaime can only see the vaguest of outline of her in the television--not nearly enough to guess her reaction. He’s reached a plateau of nervousness where panicking doesn’t even occur to him.

“That’s..._ really _ fucked up.”

It’s not funny, but Brienne’s frank assessment of his entire life makes him laugh, anyway. “It really is, isn’t it? I’ve thought that _ so _ many times in the last year. _ You were part of a really, really fucked up thing_. Cersei made it seem _ special_. Really, though, is there anything more fucked up?”

“I, um--”

“You don’t have to answer that.”

Brienne’s reflection turns her head, so Jaime looks to her. Her brow is furrowed, and he feels an immeasurable sense of guilt--for dumping this on her, for kissing her, for doing it in the wrong order, for combining the two actions.

“I’m glad you left.”

_ The same thing she said before she knew _ who _ I left. _

“I am, too.” Jaime wants to reach for her, but clasps his hands together instead. “The sister part...is bad, but more than anything, _ she’s _ bad.”

“When she told you she’d forgive you if you came back, the way she looked at you--”

“A relationship, even a fucked up one, shouldn’t have that much power. What’s wrong with me, that I let it?”

Jaime doesn’t have to reach for Brienne; she moves down the couch until their knees bump, “It can be hard to see the truth of something you’re in the middle of.”

“I let Cersei define me for _ twenty years _ just because she told me we were one person.”

Brienne puts her hand on his knee, “And then you _ left_.”

“Because she fucked other people, and didn’t understand why I was hurt. I wasn’t a partner, or even a lover--I’m not an idiot; I _ knew_, for a long time, but I stayed anyway.”

“And how do you feel now?”

“Better, most days,” he stares at her hand, still on his knee, and can't bring himself to take it. “I moped around Tyrion’s place for _ months _ and drank _ a lot _of his booze. I was afraid he’d kick my ass to the curb.”

Brienne smiles, “He wouldn’t do that.”

“My one non-shitty family member,” Jaime finds that he’s smiling, too. “I don’t see Cersei when I look at myself anymore. And I don’t..._want_ her anymore. That’s a fun thought to keep you awake at night: _Do I only want to fuck my twin?_ _Does my cock react to nothing else?_ _How broken am I?_”

“Jaime--”

“When you carried my table up the stairs, my cock apparently knows better than my brain.” He’s fucking _ blushing_, but he’s going to keep talking, now that he’s begun. “I was happy when I realized, on my own, I’d choose you--someone kind, and _ good_. I thought I couldn’t make choices like that.”

“_Jaime_,” Brienne claps her other hand over his mouth, “you’re embarrassing me.”

“In front of who?” His voice is muffled by her hand.

“_You_.”

He takes her hand from his mouth and holds onto it, “I’d say you should be flattered at how much I want to reenact scenes from _ Florian and Jonquil _ with you, but...I get if this is a dealbreaker.”

“I--I don’t _ get _it,” Brienne admits, “but I’ll try to. You deserve the things you’re working towards.”

“I’ve been trying to tell myself that.”

“_Good_.” There’s such conviction in her voice. “I’m here. Just give me a bit.”

“It’s not everyday that the guy you’ve...been on dates with...subjects you to what I just did.” They haven’t put a name to _ them_, and Jaime’s afraid to, now. “For what it’s worth, it’s over. It was over before we met. It will _ always _ be over.”

“I’d lock you in your apartment if you tried to go back to her.”

“You didn’t strike me as the possessive type,” he teases. Jaime wouldn’t mind binding himself to someone as caring as her. If Brienne saved him from himself, he’d thank her when he was able.

“Protection,” she corrects. Brienne touches him, hands gentle on his face, “I know she told you that you’re one person, but I don’t actually think you’re much like her.”

“You’re the first person to _ ever _ say that.”

“I mean, there’s genetics, sure, but nothing else.” She moves to his hair, “I suppose the beard helps.”

“It’s a spite beard. I’m attached to it, though.”

“Keep it,” Brienne pulls him into a hug, “It suits you.”

“I thought so, too.”

He’s had a long, lonely, uncomfortable year, but this--_ whatever _ Brienne offers him--makes up for it.

* * *

It’s easy to give Brienne space--he works the next night, and is gone before she gets home. Then, he sleeps until mid-morning and misses her again. The pattern repeats for another day, and Jaime convinces himself it’s for the best. He’d unloaded on her, and doesn’t want to overstep.

Sansa, of course, notices immediately. 

“Something’s different between the two of you,” Sansa’s accusation is accompanied by brandishing a mozzarella stick at him; she dips it in sauce before taking a bite. “Spill the beans.”

“Nothing’s different,” Jaime keeps his expression neutral, “We’re fine.” It’s not a lie--they _ might _ be fine.

“I didn’t say you weren’t fine. I said something was _ different. _”

“You see us _ every day_. What could you have missed?”

“I’m your life coach,” she stuffs more food in her mouth, “And I can’t be that if you’re oblique.”

“And thank you for all your help,” Jaime means that, truly, but Sansa can’t help with this--she can’t even _ know _ this. “Everything is fine, though, really.”

“Did you sleep with her?” Sansa twists a lock of her hair around her finger, “_No_. I’d know if you had.”

“I...really would prefer if you _ didn’t _ know that.”

“Too bad. Brienne will tell me. _ In detail_,” Sansa smirks at him, “So you better bring your best game, or I’ll know.”

“I, uh...are you _ threatening _ me?”

“Actually, the walls are _ really _ thin. I might need earplugs--”

“I’ll let you know, if we get there, so you can steer clear.”

“Or so I can high-five the two of you for finally getting some action.”

Jaime just wishes it were that straightforward.

* * *

That night, Brienne knocks on his door, a container of leftover pot roast in her hands.

“I thought you might be tired,” she explains, “And hungry, so I brought this. There’s enough for two.”

“Share it with me, then.” _ Be with me, _ he means, _ know my mess and take me anyway. _ He lets her in, and tries not to make it awkward. Talking less seems like it might do the trick--he gets in trouble when he runs his mouth.

Brienne studies him for a long moment, “That’s what I want to do.”

They heat it in the microwave, and sit side-by-side on the couch, a mirror of their last conversation. Jaime leans against her, just a bit, to see what Brienne will do, to see if it's still okay. Brienne wouldn't show up at his door to test him, expecting him to know what to do or say without saying so. 

"I...thought a lot," she starts, "about what you told me."

Jaime tenses.

"And it's still definitely_ what the fuck_, but that's fine. I don't want to think of it and ever, _ ever _think it seems normal."

Jaime gives her a weak chuckle, "Me either, honestly. Not the thing to normalize."

"But something that hurt you shouldn't...I don't know...exclude you from being happy. I'd be an asshole, for rejecting you over something you've struggled to move past."

Jaime thinks she's being too gracious. "I chose her. I _ let _ her, and there was a time when I wanted it, too. That's part of me."

"And then it became toxic, and you extricated yourself--something lots of people never manage. That's the end of it."

"That's...it?"

"That's it," she tells him, takes his hand and squeezes it.

* * *

Tyrion visits them again. 

Jaime doesn't mind his brother making an appearance in his new life. If there is one thing he wants carried over, one bridge that smudges the harsh line of his exile, it's Tyrion.

And his car--Jaime _ really _ likes his car, even if it looks ostentatious next to the rest of his modest accommodations.

That _ doesn't _mean that Tyrion sitting at a table with Sansa and Brienne doesn't make him nervous. He was anxious last time, too, and covered for it by repeatingly refilling his wine glass. Tyrion knows the full spectrum of his life, and can use it to mock him mercilessly.

Like, now, when he sits at Brienne and Sansa's table and says, "How are my brother's babysitters fairing?"

"We're _ great_," Sansa replies, leaning forward on her elbows, "Brienne especially."

Brienne tenses, and Jaime apologizes silently for _ whatever _ is about to transpire. 

"Oh?"

"They're _ dating_, " Sansa gesture between him and Brienne, "and they haven't killed each other yet."

Tyrion's eyebrows retreat into his hair, and Jaime looks at Brienne.

"My brother, Jaime Lannister, with a _ girlfriend_," he imbues the word with more emphasis than necessary. Jaime knows why, but Sansa tilts her head in confusion. "Were you keeping it a secret from me?"

"No," Jaime objects, tries not to sound defensive, "I have seen you in three weeks. Did you want me to text you like a teenager?" 

Tyrion laughs, "Sure. That would have been funny as fuck."

"Jaime is a _ terrible _ flirt, though." Now, Sansa's grin is mischievous. "We used _ Florian and Jonquil _ as a guide."

"_ Ugh. _Sansa, did you have to--" Brienne expression is utterly mulish.

"What?" Sansa shrugs, "It's sweet, and Tyrion should know his book is the foundation of your love!"

Tyrion laughs so hard Jaime thinks he's going to start tearing up. Embarrassment would make it worse, so Jaime crosses his arms and glares at his brother petulantly. Brienne looks like she wants the floor to open a black hole and suck her into space. 

When Tyrion calms down, he reaches into his bag on the floor and pulls out a book, "Speaking of my books, I've come today bearing a gift for my adoring fans.”

Sansa shrieks, and Brienne looks as disinterested as possible. Although, Jaime notices the way she leans forward just a bit.

Jaime just looks at his brother and says, "You're back on your bullshit, I see."

"Gotta give middle-aged women what they want."

"...And Sansa," Brienne's tone is dry.

"And _ you_," Sansa replies, "You like the smut as much as I do." She points at Jaime, " _ This _ jackass liked it, too. Don't act like you aren't going to read it. I call first dibs, though."

Sansa _ does _look like she's itching to grab the book. 

"I only read _ Florian and Jonquil _because Sansa told me Brienne liked it."

"And then you_ liked _it!"

"...As much as is possible, considering the source."

Tyrion whips three sheets of paper out of his bag and places them next to the book, "No one is reading anything until these non-disclosure agreements are signed. My editor will burn me alive without this."

"I don't need one," Jaime protests. 

Tyrion shakes his head, "One shriek from Sansa about a plot point, and she violates it if you don't sign it."

Jaime takes the paper and scribbles his name without reading anything. Hopefully he didn't just sign away his meager fortune, or his kidneys. 

"There. Now when I hear Sansa screeching through our thin walls some spoilers about the intricate plot of your _ novel filled with porn_, I won't implicate anyone in a legal shitstorm."

"Thank you." 

"I don't screech _ or _ shriek."

Brienne, silent for sometime now, interjects, "She totally does."

No one else has signed, so Jaime takes the book off the table; the cover is nondescript and reads “Advanced reader copy. Not for sale.”

“Who’s fucking this time?” He opens the cover and is immediately greeted by _ Tyrion Lannister _ written under the title, which derails his question about the plot. “Tyrion, is this...temporary?”

“Actually,’ his brother looks sheepish, a strange expression on him--Lannisters are not known for shame or embarrassment, “I wanted to ask your opinion on that.”

“You’re...seeking _ my _advice?” Had Tyrion ever asked Jaime for help? The reverse, sure, because Jaime made a flaming dumpster of his life. 

“You inspired me,” Tyrion continues, “I _ love _ the spite of this, don’t mistake that, but what if I just...published as _ me_? Father would know, then, and so would all of Westeros.”

“That’s like...peak defiance,” Sansa nods enthusiastically, “Go big or go home.”

Jaime is stuck on the word _ inspired_, “And...something _ I _ did made you want to blow your cover?”

“You defied our father in a way I didn’t think you were capable of. He thought I was a deviant long ago, and didn’t want me around, so leaving was easy. _ You’re _ his scion, though, and you told him to fuck right off.”

“It did seem kinda badass,” Sansa starts snacking on the bowl of chips in the middle of the table, “Not to stroke your old man ego, or whatever.”

“It...wasn’t a big deal,” Jaime replies, unsure of what to do with the praise. He’s bolstered when he feels Brienne’s hand on his knee under the table--a solid, comforting presence. “I um, went into his office and told him I was done being paraded around.”

He’d been high on adrenaline from ending things with Cersei when he marched into Tywin’s top-floor office. The high carried him about three minutes into the conversation, then he crashed and was so terrified he thought he was going to pass out. 

“See, that takes balls,” Tyrion points at him, “I bet his expression was neutral the entire time.”

“_Completely_,” Jaime finds the humor in the memory a year later, “like I was a child throwing a tantrum. He just _ stared _at me. I could have said the most rational thing, or flipped his desk over.”

“Now, he waits in vain for your return,” Tyrion says, “I need to one-up you, do something that will put an expression on the old cunt’s face.”

“This might do it,” Brienne reaches for the book, scanning the title, “Is this...about Galladon of Morne?”

Sansa leans closer to Brienne, “That’s a Stormlands legend!”

Jaime looks at the rest of them, “Who of what now?”

“Let it never be said that Jaime Lannister is a reader,” Tyrion pats him on the shoulder.

“That’s a_ Tarth _ legend,” Brienne’s mouth is upturned the smallest bit, “The Maid falls in love with Galladon and gifts him sword, the Just Maid. He draws it only three times, and never against another man.”

“It’s kinda obscure,” Sansa agrees, “I’ve never heard of it until I read it in class. Wait, the Maid falls in love with...are you writing _ goddess smut? _”

“That’s kinda irreverent,” Brienne adds.

Tyrion grins, “And _ that’s _ what makes it good.”

* * *

“I think we should have sex.”

By the end of the sentence, Brienne’s cheeks are mottled by her blush, and she’s wringing her hands in front of her. The only part of her that doesn’t look anxious are her eyes--they’re placid, a summer sky reflected in a glass-smooth lake. 

In shock, Jaime drops the glass he’d been drying when she knocked on his door. Thankfully, it’s plastic, so all it does is bounce across the hardwood floor and stops near Brienne’s feet. She bends down and picks it up.

“Brienne, you’re gonna have to repeat what you just said.” Jaime’s ears are _ clearly _ broken because there’s no way that Brienne Tarth knocked on his door and uttered those words.

Now, the look she gives him turns a bit stormy, “D-don’t make me _ repeat _ it.”

“_Please_.”

“_IsaidIthinkweshouldhavesex_.”

“_You_...think _ we _should have sex?”

“Are you a parrot?” Brienne walks to the kitchen and slams the glass on his counter, “Or am I speaking in Old Valyrian and don’t realize?”

“No, but that’s quite a line to open with, Brienne.”

It must have taken some effort for her to muster the courage to say the words. Brienne isn’t prudish, but she’s not the type to make lewd jokes or comments. She chuckles, sometimes into her hand, when Sansa makes inappropriate comments, but she never joins in. It’s hard to imagine her propositioning someone. Jaime tries to guess what started her down this train of thought, just days after their conversation about Cersei but comes up at a loss.

“If you’re not interested, I can go--” she pivots back to the door, and Jaime encircles her wrist with his fingers to halt her.

“_Never _ think that.” It comes out a bit more desperate that he means it to. “I’ll...overwhelm you, with my interest.” His interest overwhelms _ him _ sometimes, unfamiliar as he is with attraction that isn’t fulfilled, how it simmers below the surface and invades his thoughts. His hand makes a poor substitute when the person he wants is so nearby. 

Brienne’s eyes widen just a fraction, and she stops, “S-sorry, I don’t know how to have this kind of conversation.”

“And you think _ I _ do?”

“Better than me. You’ve at least had sex.” 

‘Cersei and I didn’t _ talk _about it,” Jaime wonders if Brienne understands, if she even can. “There was nothing to say; it was easy to know what she wanted. She demanded, and I gave.”

“Was that..._ good_?”

“I thought so--the sex wasn’t _ bad_, but I’m not sure it was...healthy,” Jaime shrugs. “I try not to think about it too hard.” He feels uncomfortable, then used, then dejected. 

“Hyle would’ve slept with me,” Brienne shakes her head, “I wanted more than his guilt, or worse, his pity.”

“You deserve better than pity.”

“And you deserve better than someone who only takes.”

“I’ve thought of this,” Jaime tugs on her wrist until Brienne’s closer, “of how different it might be, with you. We never had this awkward conversation first, though.”

“Did I just...fall passionately into your arms?”

“No, the reverse,” Jaime smirks at her, hopes it’s flirty, “All the fantasies start _ after _ we air out the skeletons in our closets, though.”

“Florian and Jonquil just..._ get _ each other.”

“Because conversations like this are mood-killers.” _ Florian and Jonquil _ is a fantasy that taught him something, but one nonetheless. “You understand me. I mean, maybe not quite as quickly Florian understands Jonquil.”

“They have sex like an _ hour _after they meet.” 

Yet, their dynamic, their desires, clearly spoke to both of them.

“I mean Tyrion wrote it, and that’s his...method,” Jaime rests his forehead against Brienne’s shoulder. “I want something better than what I’ve had”

There’s already an intimacy with Brienne that he never had with Cersei--sharing space with her, a myriad of tiny gestures, the gentle way she looks at him and touches him. Her acceptance and her help. Brienne knows parts of him his sister never touched.

“Me too.”

And fuck it all, Jaime is _ happy _ \--a feeling that warms him from the inside. Surely, the feeling can only grow. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I mean, I _ do _\--”

There’s a scoff above his head, “I do, too. It’s not like I’m some cloistered septa, just because--”

“I’d never doubt your aptitude,” Jaime glances up at her.

“Good.”

Jaime’s quite proud of how _ not _panicked he sounds when he says, "Well, lead the way, then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was...less of a cliffhanger, right? I mean, you know what's coming in the next chapter! We've hit the halfway point where the fic TURNS INTO a smutty romance novel.
> 
> If you want writing updates, or to read my fandom screeching, I'm on tumblr at https://kurikaesu-haru.tumblr.com/


	9. Make Some Extra Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Well, lead the way then,” he says._
> 
> _So much for Jaime taking the lead._
> 
> _Brienne panics, a fit of nervous laughter bubbling out of her, “Why am I the leader?”_
> 
> _“Because you’re more capable than me.”_
> 
> _“Not at this!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY GUYS!
> 
> I come bringing the gift of smut two days early! I am really happy with this chapter, so I hope everyone enjoys it. The rest of this fic has smut in every chapter.
> 
> I also have a request! I started posting a new fic; it's a collab with my beta reader, and I'm super proud of it, so I'd love if some of my AMAZING readers here would check it out. It's called [A Ghost Here Amongst the Living](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21248282/chapters/50592254). It's a Victorian Gothic ghost story, so it's more serious than this fic, but it has a good humor/fluff/smut balance. Sansa and Brienne won't appear until next chapter, but their friendship there inspired _One Good, Honest Kiss_. I was working on that when Sansa reading romance novels took over my brain. It's Jaime/Brienne, and the prologue and chapter one are up!

Brienne makes it to the door, propositions Jaime with confidence she decidedly _ doesn’t _ feel. _ He’ll do the rest _ , _ if I can just broach the subject_. Brienne tires of her lonely bed. She combines Jaime’s kisses with _ Florian and Jonquil _ , imagines him with her--touching her, _ taking _ her--until it morphs into a need she can’t satisfy on her own. 

_ Jaime needs it to_. The love he thought he’d known wasn’t love at all. And maybe it’s hubris, but Brienne thinks she can give him the intimacy he seeks. She _ feels _it--all she has to do is share it.

“Well, lead the way then,” he says.

_ So much for Jaime taking the lead. _

Brienne panics, a fit of nervous laughter bubbling out of her, “Why am _ I _ the leader?”

“Because you’re more capable than me.”

“Not at _ this!_” Her nerves are so intense she can feel the blood pounding in her ears. “I’m a virgin.”

_ Why did I say that _ again_? _ Jaime _ knows _\--even if she hadn’t hold him, her limited experience makes it painfully obvious. 

“Fine, then,” Jaime laughs, and it loosens some of the tightness in her chest. He clears his throat, “_I may be a fool, my lady, but I want you_.”

Florian’s line, from Jaime, at _ her_, does Brienne in--the same rush of longing she’d felt when she read it, only instead of imagining she was Jonquil, she doesn’t have to imagine anything. 

“Brienne,” he continues, soft, “Just kiss me.”

Her last sight is Jaime’s green eyes and satisfied smirk; he’ll be insufferable, later, at his smooth delivery of Florian’s line. Brienne feels hyper-aware--her height, the thickness of her torso where Jaime’s arms are around her, her lack of Jonquil’s heaving bosom. She’s stuck in her head, overthinking _ everything_, but Jaime’s enthusiasm at her _ utter _fumbling calms her. 

Jaime pulls her flush against him, pours himself into the kiss. It's just a kiss, but it's also _ trust_, something neither of them give easily. Brienne does her best to keep up, better with the placement of her hands than a month ago. She grips Jaime's shoulders, slides her hand into his hair, wants to know more of what he likes, what he wants from her.

The mood shifts, something fiercer. When Jaime slides a hand under her shirt, warm palm pressed against the small of her back, she draws a breath, and Jaime laughs.

Brienne might literally swoon, weak as she feels in her knees. _ How un-sexy would that be, me collapsing in a heap? _

"Bed," Jaime says into her shoulder, "I'm gonna fall over, otherwise."

“Swooning?”

"_Utterly_. You could carry me."

"_No. _ And _ definitely _not if you pout like that."

Dragging Jaime, drunk, through his apartment was more efficient than _ whatever _ they’re doing this time. Jaime urges her forward, kissing her between the steps, and Brienne trusts he's not going to smash her into a door frame or furniture. Still, she stumbles over a pair of his sneakers. 

"Why are you so _ messy_?" 

"Because I grew up with a dozen housekeepers, _ duh_." He's doing something with his mouth near her ear that sends a shiver down her spine. 

Clothes on the bedroom floor tangle under Brienne's feet. Jaime keeps her from stumbling. The edge of the bed is a welcome reprieve. Jaime flips on a lamp, and the newy-illuminated space is as messy as she remembers. The red comforter is turned down and askew; of _ course _ Jaime Lannister doesn’t make his bed.

"Hey, is Sansa home?"

The question derails Brienne, "Um, not yet."

Jaime pulls his phone out and sits beside her. "I told her I'd warn her if she was going to...._ interrupt _ anything.”

“...Oh.”

_ Don’t bother me for the rest of the day, _ Jaime types. He adds several winking emoji, a thumbs up, and an eggplant.

“_Really?” _

Within seconds, Jaime’s phone vibrates. _ YAAAAAS! I’m the BEST life coach! Full report expected. _

“This is, um, the next step in her plan,” Jaime looks abashed, “us fucking, I mean.”

“Fucking,” Brienne repeats. It does something different to her than softer terms--the stoking of a fire, low within her, an intense, almost primal awareness of Jaime next to her.

“You said _ fucking _,” he teases, “What else I can get you to say?”

His sing-song tone incenses her, “Maybe _ go away_.”

“I doubt that’s what you want,” he replies when his face is inches from hers again.

Everything about Jaime’s touch is insistent--the hunger behind the way he kisses her, one hand tugging at her shirt while the other grips her knee. _ Now _ she isn’t sure what to do with her hands.

“Lift your arms.”

Brienne obeys, goosebumps appearing on the newly-exposed skin. An ingrained reaction makes her screw her eyes shut. Jaime touches her collarbone, skirts down the front of her bra and tickles her side; all of it makes her squirm.

“_Hmmmm_.” 

“W-what?” 

Brienne opens one eye to find him smiling as he moves forward to press a kiss onto her shoulder. “Freckles.”

She looks down at herself--the bra she barely needs, the abounding freckles, her muscular arms. “Too many,” she laments, “A few might be endearing, but this--”

Jaime shuts her up with a kiss, over almost before it starts. “I’ve heard there are people who can make it through an _ entire _ sexual encounter without being self-deprecating, or insulting the other party--I’d like that.”

“M-me too.”

“It’s a pact, then.”

Brienne tries to cast her insecurities aside, as far as she can manage. It’s not so hard to realize Jaime is looking at something he wants to see, and touching something he wants to touch. Jaime kisses her shoulder, follows the strap of her plain beige bra down the front until he reaches the slight swell of her breasts. 

"That_ tickles_.”

Her gasps and fidgets seem to amuse Jaime, but neither increase the pace of his exploration. Jaime reaches for the clasp at her back, a silent question that Brienne answers by undoing it herself. An excuse for herself is on the tip of her tongue--the memory of a similar situation with Hyle rises, unbidden. _ In the dark it doesn’t matter_.

No wonder she felt cold.

She’s unbuttoning Jaime’s shirt before she’s even cognizant of moving. He’s smirking like he’s giving her a nameday gift that he’s especially proud of. The smirk stays as she pushes the shirt off his shoulders.

“I know you look at me.” 

_ Because who wouldn’t? Who doesn’t? _

“It’s hard not to,” she says instead, “When you walk around preening and drape yourself on my furniture.” 

“I had to get your attention _ somehow_,” he sighs dramatically, “Sansa says you’re thirsty.”

“Sansa is too helpful.”

‘Here,” he whispers when he’s free of the shirt, taking her hand and presses it against the front of his jeans so Brienne can feel his erection. “I know you think no one would, so--"

_ “Jaime_.” She colors, embarrassed and aroused.

He cups her breast with his other hand, swiping his thumb over her nipple. She sounds nothing like Jonquil’s breathy, feminine gasps, but maybe that’s okay. The next time, Brienne reacts how she will, and Jaime _ beams _ at her.

Brienne’s surprisingly steady as she unbuttons his jeans, grazing him with her fingers as she tugs down the zipper. He sucks in a breath through his nose. She stands, bringing Jaime with her.

“So eager,” he teases, “No, _ thirsty_.” 

His pride at mastering Sansa’s slang is endearing. There’s no less haste in Jaime’s movements as he shucks the jeans and adds them to the mess. He reaches for Brienne, who stumbles trying to divest herself of her own clothes, until Jaime grabs her elbows to steady her.

She’s never been completely naked in front of anyone, but she’s stubborn, so she doesn’t look away. The only tension she feels is arousal, a slow burn that starts low in her belly that spreads through her limbs. 

Jaime stares at her, once from head to toe, _ “_Brienne, _ fuck_, come here.”

Brienne decides to leave trying to see what Jaime sees for another day. Emboldened, she frees him from his underwear, the last scrap of clothing between them. Jaime touches her hip, cups her ass with one hand and pulls them together. His cock is trapped between them, and Brienne’s shifts, feeling the wetness between her thighs. 

“What’s your favorite scene from _ Florian and Jonquil?_”

Brienne knows immediately what Jaime means by _ scene_. When Jonquil sits astride Florian and rocks against him, his hands on her hips. It's the furthest from her--no one would want her there, want to watch her like that. That’s not what she wants to think about now, so she chooses another.

“T-the first one, after he spies her in the water.” Jonquil is a maid, and Florian is caring and attentive. It's the scene that started the longing within her.

Jaime tilts his head, “Really?”

“T-there’s others, but for now--”

He seems to understand, “As the lady wishes.”

In bed, Jaime stops her when she tries to burrow under his comforter, throwing half of it off the bed. Brienne has a series of inane thoughts, starting with _ I’m glad I shaved my legs_. Jaime doesn’t notice any of the faults she’d find with herself, just kisses her and slides his hand between her thighs.

“_Thirsty_,” he repeats, clearly still entertained. 

Brienne can’t protest the teasing when his thumb, slick with _ her_, rubs a slow circle over her clit. Masturbation has orderly proceedings for her--Jaime doesn’t do what she would do, though, and it means he’s going to drive her insane. She grabs his cock in a fit of spiteful retaliation, closes her hand around the hard length of it and strokes upward.

“You too,” she doesn’t care how mulish she sounds.

“_Obviously_. I want to fuck you,” Jaime answers. Brienne should’ve known she couldn’t embarrass him. All she’d done was make him say something that makes her want him more. 

He rifles through the drawer of his nightstand for a condom. “There’s like...two unexpired ones in here.”

“H-how many do we _ need_?”

“This is going to be _ all _ our free time now.”

Brienne uses her elbows to leverage herself off the bed, and watches Jaime put the condom on. It means staring at his cock, and when he notices her, he smiles at her, golden and beautiful. The whole picture makes Brienne want to die--it’s too, _ too _much.

She must be gawping at him because Jaime pats the bed next to him, “Come here, and turn over.”

When Jaime wraps an arm around her, Brienne thinks _ he doesn’t want to look at me while we do this_. It’s an intrusive thought, a lead weight in the pit of her stomach. Her demeanor must shift because Jaime whispers _trust me _ into her ear, and it pulls her back into the moment. His cock is still hard, pressed against her ass. On instinct, she pushes herself against him, and Jaime tightens his arm around her.

Jaime shifts them, lifts her leg a fraction and slides into her in one fluid motion. It’s not painful, just an uncomfortable pinch that dissipates after Jaime stills. The first push feels like it steals the air from her lungs.

“Talk to me,” Jaime’s voice is warm in her ear.

“I--I’m fine,” she replies.

“You broke our pact,” he teases her in both words and deeds, a slight pull and push that makes her gasp. “I heard your _ incredibly _loud thoughts.”

“S-sorry.”

“Don’t be,” this time he kisses the back of her neck, “I get it.”

And Jaime _ does_. Stupidly handsome or otherwise, it doesn’t stop the self-doubt that looms in the dark places of the mind. Brienne takes his hand and laces their fingers together against her stomach. 

When Jaime moves, her thoughts scatter, and take the self-doubt with them. It’s hard to focus on how she’s not dainty like Jonquil when Jaime drives into her, buried to the hilt, makes her see stars and cry out. She’d been afraid that Jaime behind her would feel impersonal, but he keep kissing her neck, and narrating, and touching her.

“Help me,” Jaime whispers, and he sounds more darkly inviting than she’s ever heard. Whatever he wants help with, Brienne will oblige. He takes her hand, guided by his own, and reaches between her legs. Their fingers slip, bump against where they’re joined. Brienne, embarrassed, presses her face into the pillow. 

Not to be deterred, Jaime moves her fingers, “Help me help _ you_, I mean.”

“_Oh.” _

Jaime laughs, keeps his hand against hers and thrusts into her. Touching herself while Jaime’s inside her seems superfluous, at first. That’s what she does alone, and it’s a pale, pale shade to _ this_. Jaime increases their pace, and Brienne _ gets it_. What she can do on her own isn’t _ bad_, but _ combined_\--pleasure mounts within her, Jaime talks her through it.

Brienne stumbles over Jaime’s name when she comes, says it loud enough that Sansa surely could hear it. She clenches around him, and the high and the drop is familiar and new all at once. Jaime’s grip around her waist borders on painful. She loses focus as he finishes--Jaime comes with his sweat-damp forehead pressed against the base of her neck.

Jaime does something with the condom--hopefully not throwing it on the floor, but Brienne wouldn’t be too surprised. She turns onto her back, stares at the ceiling. Something really articulate, like _ fuuuuuuuuuck_, keeps looping in her admittedly low-functioning brain.

Then, Jaime returns with his comforter in hand, pulls it over both their heads and sprawls half atop her. Brienne eats a mouthful of golden hair, bats it away, and ends up petting Jaime’s head.

“Brienne, _ thank you_, I-I,” he stutters, voice muffled into her shoulder.

“Deep breath,” she wonders if she can project some calm onto Jaime. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Jaime takes the deep breath she suggested, “just feeling sentimental.”

* * *

It’s not that romance novels lie--it’s that they’re a fantasy that smooths over the elements that aren’t ideal. Jonquil looks beautiful the morning after. Her hair is gently tousled, her lips are kiss-swollen. Florian pulls the sheets away from her and takes her into his arms again. Neither of them have morning breath. No one mentions that Jonquil is probably in slight discomfort, or that sex is messy and kind of gross. 

Brienne’s embarrassed by her nakedness, now that it’s not in the midst of anything. The act itself isn’t transformative--there was a moment, though, somewhere in the middle, where Brienne was _ completely _content with herself. It’s gone now, but she remembers it, tucks it away.

Even Jaime looks a bit uncomfortable.

“I, uh--you’re still here.” he blurts.

“W-where would I go?”

“Away,” he says, “Or you could tell me to go.”

“This is _ your _bed.”

“Oh, right,” he shakes his head against the pillow. It’s a bit too messy, but Jaime almost manages Jonquil’s tousled look. “I guess that’s new.”

“I’d never send you away.” It’s not _ quite _ what she wants to say, but it’s close. It will hold.

And if Jaime’s stupid tousled morning-after hair makes him Jonquil, then she’s Florian, and Brienne knows _ exactly _ what to do--she hugs him, tight enough that she must be smothering him. The awkwardness is replaced by warmth; Jaime looks so damned happy, like he’s going to cry, and it almost makes Brienne sad.

* * *

“_Soooooo_.”

Sansa’s laying on the floor in front of the window, reading Tyrion’s manuscript. She’d been reading it slowly, either to savor it or to irritate Brienne. Not that Brienne admitted aloud her desire to read it. Sansa had even been taking notes at Tyrion’s behest. _ Tell me where it needs to be smuttier_, he’d texted her. _ Everywhere,_ she replied.

“Hi Sansa,” Brienne places her bag on one of the chairs around the table, “How are you?”

“Don’t make small talk with me,” Sansa chides, closing the book and standing up, “I know what you’ve been _ doing_.” Her scolding tone is accompanied with a smirk.

“I’m sure Jaime texted you a play-by-play.” Brienne spent her work day coming to terms with the idea that Jaime was going to spill every detail because his friendship with Sansa was is akin two teenage girls at a sleepover. Sansa is an excellent friend, and Jaime needs those as much as Brienne did when she met Sansa, so she can weather the embarrassment.

“Not a peep, actually,” Sansa answers, “Could it be that you rendered him speechless?”

“I...don’t think I did anything special.” 

_ Now _ her face feels hot. Memories of the prior night plagued Brienne throughout the day. Maybe _ plagued _ isn’t the best term--they were _ good _ memories, just not what she wants to think of while filing patient reports or talking to Jon Snow.

“I’m _ sure _ you blew his mind,” Sansa loops her hair into a bun atop her head. “Not that Jaime shared. I asked for a full report, and he lets me down.” 

“I saw the text.”

“Of course you did.”

“You must be devastated without the details.”

Sansa grabs her arms and tries to shake her, “I’ve invested a lot of emotional labor into this. Don’t deny my delicious payout.”

“It was...good,” Brienne feels like she’s talking about a three-star restaurant, edible, but she wouldn’t go back of her own accord. It’s not right at _ all_.

Sansa is doing that thing she does with one of her eyebrows. “...Good?” she repeats, “Like...five out of ten? I guess if his romancing skills are so poor--”

“No!” Brienne interrupts, “I’m bad with words.” She wants to grab _ Florian and Jonquil _ to find a passage that means what she’s trying to say. Ridiculously, Tyrion captured all of it in a language she can understand, but can’t access. “It was...swoon-worthy. I thought about it all day.”

Sansa gives her an enthusiastic hug, “You deserve it. Now, tell me _ everything_.

And, in the spirit of female friendship, Brienne makes both of them a cup of coffee and does just that.

* * *

Sex seems to have a profound impact on Jaime’s mood.

Brienne would, even on his worst day, describe Jaime as congenial in most situations. Sure, he’s a bit tone-deaf with his teasing, and can seem glib if a person doesn’t know what they’re looking for. He’s also prone to fits of moodiness and melodrama. Brienne has come to find some of these traits charming.

For the next few days, her life plays out the most self-indulgent bodice-ripper in Sansa’s collection. Jaime’s affection isn’t new, but Brienne’s unequipped to deal with such ardor directed at her. What does she do with a man who decides that the eleven minutes it takes pasta to cook is time enough to pull down her jeans and bury his face between her thighs?

“What are you doing?” she practically shrieks, panicked at the idea of something so intimate happening in her fucking kitchen while her microwave counts down.

“Multitasking,” Jaime replies, “although, I heard human brains aren’t good at it.”

And Brienne _ lets _ him, proves what he just said about multitasking because she forgets about the pasta _ utterly_. Jaime works his tongue against her while he slides two fingers inside. Brienne grips the edge of the counter, grips his hair, tries to ignore the fucking _ noises_. Looking down is certain death, so she shuts her eyes. Jaime steadies her with a hand on her hip, curls his fingers in a specific way that _ works_, and Brienne slides down, back against the cabinets, until she hits the floor.

Jaime leans against the cabinets next to her, wipes _ her _ off his lips with the back of his hand. The sight of him, smirking, beard wet with--

“What the _ hell _ was that for?”

“Fun,” he shrugs. The microwave timer beeps. “And a race; I beat the pasta.”

Brienne returns the favor, later, with no timer and her bedroom door locked securely behind her. She’d done this, once, with Hyle--vowed never to repeat it. It’s not the same, though; kneeling before Jaime--he looks just as surprised as she had in the kitchen. Jaime touches her hair, gasps her name, and tells her _ thank you_.

* * *

Jaime uses the key Sansa gave him and crawls into bed with her. It’s a weeknight, and she’s long asleep by the time Jaime gets off work. Brienne wakes, sometime between midnight and dawn, with Jaime’s back pressed against her. Either he’d pulled her arm around him, or she’d moved in her sleep.

“_What are you doing?” _ she whispers, unsure if she wants him to hear and wake.

“Little spoon,” he mumbles.

Sleep returns to her easily enough, and when her phone blares it’s usual alarm, she reaches over him to her nightstand, grabs her phone, and nearly drops it on Jaime’s head. The singing of the alarm doesn’t wake him.

_ Gods, he sleeps like the dead, doesn’t he_?

Brienne rises, begrudgingly, tucks the duvet closer around him, looks at him for a minute. She likes him there and doesn’t even try to make an excuse for it. Jaime left a trail of clothes from her bedroom door, so Brienne picks them up and drops them on the bed.

When she goes into the living room, Sansa, eating a bowl of sugary cereal, rises from the table and peers into her room. “_Nice _.” 

“He--let himself in,” Brienne doesn’t know what else to say.

“Well, we did sorta adopt him.”

“S-sorry.” Is this bad roommate etiquette?” Sansa was the one who gave him the key, but one of the best things about Sansa was that she _ didn’t _ bring men home. “I told him I’d never turn him away, and...well, he believed me.”

Sansa laughs, looks through the door at Jaime again, “Don’t apologize for waking up next to Jaime Lannister. Just think of it like...snacking in bed.”

Brienne groans, Sansa cackles, and Jaime keeps sleeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought! You can find me on tumblr @kurikaesu-haru


	10. A Life in Your Shape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Hit me with it,” Sansa says when her flight of wine is in front of her, arranged from dry to sweet. She sips the first one and scrunches her nose. “Too dry.”_
> 
> _“I could’ve told you it would be.”_
> 
> _“You’re stalling,” Sansa accuses, “Tell me.”_
> 
> _“I’m terrified I’m going to fuck something up with Brienne.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another week, another chapter of this, frankly ridiculous, smut-filled story. Thank you, as always for all your wonderful flailing and emoji, and that all of you love Jaime being the little spoon as much as I do. 😂

Jaime trusts Brienne with the most fragile part of him; it’s foreign and wonderful, and he’s certain to fuck it up.

_ “I’d never send you away.” _

How did she know that he needed to hear that? He’d been overwhelmed, sated, _ terrified _\--clung to her until he fell asleep and woke her in the middle of the night to repeat the entire event over. All Jaime can do to repay her is to show her that she’s wanted, throw himself into her arms, touch her with all the skill he possesses, crawl into her bed after midnight and marvel that he’s welcome.

It takes Jaime an entire week to decides he needs to talk to _ someone_. His thoughts are trapped in his head, a jumbled loop, and he needs someone who will listen to him talk until the order of his mind rights itself. And it needs to _ not _ be Brienne. She will look at him and think his confusion is about her--her own insecurity, or that some fault with her had done it.

That leaves Tyrion, Sansa, and Bronn. Tyrion knows the full truth of Cersei, but his brother will look at him and say “you like fucking her, don’t overthink it.” Bronn would be much the same. In the end, he chooses Sansa.

_ Can we talk? _He sends the text while she’s probably in class, so she doesn’t respond for a couple hours.

_ Sure. Try and sound less ominous next time. Are you breaking up with me? _The string of emojis are crying, but it’s the one that means she’s laughing.

Jaime needs alcohol for this one--thankfully, King’s Landing is awash in happy hour specials, and Sansa and he are the type of people who can meet at two in the afternoon on a Wednesday.

“Hit me with it,” Sansa says when her flight of wine is in front of her, arranged from dry to sweet. She sips the first one and scrunches her nose. “Too dry.”

“I could’ve told you it would be.”

“You’re stalling,” Sansa accuses, “Tell me.”

“I’m terrified I’m going to fuck something up with Brienne.”

Sansa takes another sip of wine, “Why?”

Jaime can’t tell Sansa that he fucked his twin sister. Weirdly, that’s not the part he needs help with; that’s not the part of Cersei that’s lingering.

“My last relationship was...bad,” he starts, “And not to be a fucking cliche, but I _ really _ didn’t see it. I basically let her absorb me--she decided everything, and told me it was special.”

“Are you ashamed?” Sansa leans closer to him, lowers her voice. 

“I--I think so. Like why did I let her? I could’ve left; I _ did _ leave, but it took so long.”

“But you _ did _leave,” Sansa repeats.

“It doesn’t feel like an achievement,” Jaime pauses. _ This is too fucking hard_. “I feel like there’s nothing left of me after.”

Sansa gets up and moves to his side of the booth. She’s going to comfort him, or lecture him, and Jaime steels himself for the mortification that will accompany either. 

“When I was eighteen,” she starts, “I dated this douchebag for like six months. He used to tell me how to wear my hair, and who to talk to. And I thought ‘isn’t it romantic, that he wants me to be a certain way?’ I thought I loved him, so I did it.”

In the last year, nothing anyone has said to him resonates as much as what Sansa just said. 

“W-what happened?”

“Arya, smarter than me by far, told me he was a fucker, and I dumped him.”

A mirthless laugh bubbles out of him, “Gods, where was Arya when _ I _ was seventeen to tell me that?” _ Where was anyone? _Their mother was the only one who would have noticed, or cared, and she had been dead for years by then.

“I was like...three, so Arya was just a twinkle in my father’s eye. Is that when you…?”

Jaime nods, “About, yeah.”

“That’s _ decades_, Jaime,” Sansa looks taken aback, “How are you supposed to unpack that, _ alone_, in a year? You’re not a machine.”

“I feel like I’ll never be rid of her.” _ There_. He said it. “Like she’s going to taint _ everything_, or I’ll _ become _ like her, and inflict that on Brienne. She’s the first thing I’ve ever chosen for myself.”

Jaime knew that sex would bind him to Brienne. He thought Cersei was the origin of his devotion; it was part of the defect, and no one else would ever inspire it. And if someone _ did_, Jaime would do better to keep it to himself; he’d choose someone awful and fall back into the trap he’d dug out of.

Sansa puts her hand over his, and her kindness makes him feel pathetic, makes him feel grateful. 

“You won’t.”

“I want something _ normal_, but I don’t know how that goes.”

“That’s okay,” Sansa passes him the third wine in her flight, “Drink this one, it’s not too sweet--you’ll like it.”

Jaime tries it, and Sansa was right; he doesn’t know shit about wine, but he can imagine some sommelier droning about _ notes of peach _ or something.

“With my--I mean, with _ her_, everything was so...calculated.” He lowers his voice even more, “Even sex was her controlling me, or using it to isolate me. It was never just because she wanted to be with me.” He’d overlooked so many things, and by the end was outright lying to himself. 

After he left, Jaime kept repeating _ you get what you deserve_. There was a taint in him, buried deep and unmovable. By that logic, Cersei was what he deserved. 

Sansa squeezes his hand again, “That’s not how it should be.”

“Brienne’s so different that it’s just...overwhelming. I keep throwing myself at her; I don’t know what else to do.” 

“She may have shared some details, since _ you _ left me hanging. And I’m sure she _ hates _ the attention.” Sansa giggles, “Jaime Lannister, legit snack, is giving me too many orgasms! It’s _ terrible_; I don’t know how to have fun.” Sansa does a spot-on impression of Brienne’s serious, scolding tone.

“Brienne sounds _ exactly _ like that,” Jaime laughs.

“I know.”

He doesn’t know what’s _ right-_-has no model to base it on. “I think I’m... _ weird _ about it.”

“...Weird? Like about sex?”

“...Yeah.”

Sansa stares at him for long enough that Jaime feels uncomfortable. _ I shouldn’t have said anything_.

“Like...a kink? What is it? Handcuffs? Clown suit? _ Pegging_?”

“I--_what?_”

“The _ look _ on your face!” Sansa starts laughing, “Seriously, though, what is it? As long as you don’t want her to call you ‘daddy’ or something gross--”

“_None _of that! I guess I just...feel clingy, and I think that she’ll get annoyed.”

Sansa does the _ double _ eyebrow raise. “You...like to _ cuddle?_ Why is that weird? Does Brienne think it’s weird?”

“She...hasn’t said.” 

It’s Cersei, _ again_\--Jaime can count the number of times he’d woken up next to her. A lot of it was circumstance, but a lot of it was that affection wasn’t in her nature. What benefit was there, to her, for spending an extra hour in bed, just talking? Brienne gives affection freely, if shyly, and Jaime absorbs it like a plant that needs sunlight.

“Well, what does Brienne do?” 

“She’s never pushed me away.”

Sansa pats him on the back, a sad smile on her face, “_Seven hells_, Jaime, that’s not weird at all. Everyone likes that--it’s _ normal_. You’re _ normal_.”

* * *

Before she left, Sansa told him to tell Brienne what was bothering him. “Use your words, like the grown-ass man you are,” she said, “If you can’t do that, you aren’t ready to be in a relationship.”

_ Is that what they’re doing? _The term is strangely meaningless to Jaime--he would’ve defined Cersei that way, but now he knew that wasn’t really the case.

“Brienne.”

She’s baking brownies that probably contain more butter than she’s consumed in the last month combined. It’s someone’s birthday at work, and Jaime plans to steal a few for himself. They’re going in a little box anyway, so the person won’t know the pan is shy two. Or four.

“Yes?”

“Am I...annoying?”

Brienne laughs, “_Yes_.” Her voice has a fondness he’s grown to recognize; she’s facing away from him, but she sounds like she’s smiling. “But not in a bad way.”

“Can someone be annoying in a good way?”

“You’re...charming. Even when your jokes miss.”

“Do you think I’m clingy?”

The brownies are in the oven, so Brienne turns to him, takes off the oven mitt and tucks her hair behind her ears. “Objectively? I--I don’t know. I have no one to compare you to.”

“Not Hyle Hunt?” Brienne told him _ that _ story--Jaime answered it by telling her she shouldn’t have wasted her time on such a fuckface.

“Y--you’re not anything like Hyle.”

“My one good quality,” Jaime rests his chin on his hand, “I wondered if you mind that I’m always invading your personal space.”

“Like letting yourself in and crawling into bed with me?” 

“Or how after we fuck I always--Sansa told me I was a _ cuddler_. Anyway, I wanted to ask if it was weird.”

Brienne sits on the edge of the table next to him, “It was strange, at first, because I’m not used to---to affection, I guess. It’s why _ Florian and Jonquil _ made me sad when I read it.”

“No one’s ever just _ touched _ me.” Brienne’s close enough to reach, so Jaime rests his forehead against her thigh. “I don’t want to fuck this up.”

She scratches her fingers against his scalp, and it creates the same ache in his chest. 

“I’m nervous, too,” Brienne sounds embarrassed, “And I feel like I get caught up in weird details.”

“Me too.”

“Don’t hide from me.” There’s a fragile note in her tone that makes Jaime look up at her. “I’ll tell you if I’m irritated, and I hope you’ll do the same.”

“Use my words, like an adult.”

“....Did Sansa tell you that?”

* * *

Jaime stares into the guestroom in Tyrion's apartment long enough that his brother reaches up taps him on the arm.

"Is there anything going on up there?"

He glances down at Tyrion; he's smirking.

"Was that a height joke, or a 'Jaime's head is filled will fluff' joke?"

"...Yep."

"I guess I was just... returning to the scene of my existential meltdowns. I spent many a night in this room."

"And many other nights drinking on my couch. My liquor collection is still recovering."

The guest room is nothing special, a plain navy comforter, a nightstand, a dresser--but it was Jaime's refuge.

"Thank you," Jaime feels awkward saying it--the Lannisters aren't a sentimental family. He's probably the most maudlin, and he's used to being forced to bury it. "I don't know what I would've done if you closed your door to me."

_ Crawled back_. Performed whatever penance Cersei or his father wanted. It would have broken him, and Jaime wouldn't have been able to put _ those _pieces back together. The fact that there was someone waiting for him at the end of the long, long walk.

_ I can't say any of that shit to Tyrion, though. _His brother would laugh, not knowing what else to do.

"There was never a question," Tyrion answers, "I only hoped you'd eventually do what you did, and I told myself I'd do what you needed of me. You're the only family I have left."

Jaime nods, puts his hand on Tyrion's shoulder, "Have you thought about your pen name?" 

"Yeah. Have you read the book?"

"Sansa read some bits aloud to me and Brienne. It was... uncomfortable, for many reasons. She's completely monopolizing the book, though."

"She might be a better editor than my _ actual _ editor."

"If you value your idiot brother's opinion, I think you should go for it. After _ Florian and Jonquil_, wouldn't going public just up the hype?"

Tyrion is clearly imagining the full breadth and depth of spitefulness that could result from blowing his cover. "I'm imagining Father's face, sitting at his desk...just…" he dissolves into laughter.

"It'll make you... really famous," Jaime cautions, "It's hard, being like that." Harder yet, being like that while keeping a damning secret. "Not that you shouldn't do it--just that stuff will change."

"Father will _ hate _ me being in the public eye," Tyrion sounds _ gleeful. _"The Imp who writes smut for sexually frustrated housewives."

"That...would be worth dealing with some celebrity."

"If only we could time the release an announcement with something public _ and _ Lannister," Tyrion looks at Jaime expectantly.

Jaime waves his hands, "Don't look at me--all my intel is a year old, and I never knew that much anyway."

A paper-pushing suit just wasn't what he wanted to be. It was peace, to move on from something he wasn't meant for 

Tyrion makes a grumpy huff at having his expectations dashed. The expression makes Jaime appreciate everyone who puts up with _ him _ because he's pretty sure Tyrion and he share expression.

"You know who _ would _ know," Jaime blurts as the idea pops into his head, "Margaery Tyrell."

* * *

All it takes is a text from Sansa to make a meeting with Margaery possible.

"Jaime Lannister," Margaery's perfectly manicured nails tap a rhythm onto the glass table of the cafe they'd chosen as their meeting place. "I still don't know what happened to you."

Margaery has an air about her that reminds him of Cersei--it's the intention in every aspect of their appearance and disposition. Every moment of Cersei's life is _ some _ power play, some behind-the-scenes machinations. For her, fucking wasn't even immune to her constant vying for power. 

Jaime _ hates _ it--never wants to think that way about anything ever again. 

"A quarter-life crisis a decade too late," Jaime isn't interested in some song and dance with her. 

"Daddy issues," she replies dryly, "_Sister _ issues."

That Margaery has an inkling doesn't shock him, nor that she will guard the tidbit of information like a dragon protecting its eggs. She's smiling at him, and maybe it's an artifice of congeniality, but Jaime doesn't think she has the inclination to _ do _ anything with the information. 

"Sure," he replies, shrugging, "if you want to call it that."

They order drinks, in the spirit of any social outing attended by Lannisters and people under thirty. The beer he chooses isn't _ that _good; it's no wonder Bronn makes a killing.

"We have an embarrass-the-Lannisters plan," Tyrion keeps his voice low.

"More than the three of us being seen together?" 

Jaime half-expects Margary to ask to take a selfie with the three of them to create the commotion herself. Jaime would _ absolutely _ let her, and she could post it wherever she wanted. He suddenly wants to actively assist in the commotion Tyrion wants to create.

"At least triple," Jaime answers. 

"_Oooh! _ " Margaery claps her hands together, "An attack from _ inside_. I love it!"

Tyrion tells her the whole thing, doesn't even whip out a non-disclosure agreement when he does it. Margaery, for all her ability to comport herself publicly, she can’t completely mask her surprise.

"Seven hells," Margaery laughs, "_You _ wrote _ Florian and Jonquil_? Are you lying?”

“Why would I make that up?” Tyrion asks.

“How?” she asks, “_Why?” _

“I wanted to do something he’d never associate with me. Something that made me laugh at the ridiculousness of it.”

“So...romance novels?” Margaery takes a drink.

_ “Exactly.” _

“What is _ wrong _ with the two of you?” she shakes her head, brown curls bobbing as she looks from Tyrion to Jaime. “Writing romance novels in secret, and abandoning your position as heir to _ everything _ to serve beer and live next to Brienne and Sansa. I know Tywin isn’t _ pleasant_\--”

“He’s an awful father,” Jaime replies, shrugging, “I needed to do something drastic; it just took me a long time.”

If he’d done it sooner, he might not have met Brienne. Maybe things needed to happen _ just _ as they did. That’s a good feeling--that the past, even when he was deeply discontent, had meaning because it led _ here_. And here is good. A challenge, sometimes, but good.

“We need to line this up with an event,” Tyrion continues, “but we’ve been cast out from the inner circle. The impact of this is _ timing _ it.”

Now, Margeary grins, enjoying the intrigue, “Grandmother _ did _ mention something--a joint venture of some sort. I can get the details. They’re announcing it, though, at the ostentatious gala your father holds in the fall.”

_ Ugh_. Jaime remember _ that_, although one year of it is indistinguishable from the next. An uncomfortable tuxedo and playing nice with awful people. Not this year, though.

“Sounds like a good day for a _ terribly _ distracting announcement.”

They spend the rest of the time scheming--or, rather, Tyrion and Margaery do. Jaime, for once, stays mostly silent. He likes the plan, but has little to add to it other than his support. 

“Jaime,” Margaey whispers as Tyrion is paying their tab, “When I saw you at Blackwater, I did a double take. I thought _ that can’t be Jaime Lannister_.”

“I’m a changed man,” Jaime shrugs nonchalantly.

She gives him a pointed look, “_How _changed?”

_ Ah_. Even Jaime can read between the lines here. _ Cersei_. “Utterly,” he answers, “I kept my car and my clothes. Well, _ some _of my clothes. I needed something to cover my ass when I walked out.” 

Margaery laughs, a sweet sound that doesn’t match her conniving interior, “_Good_. Does Brienne... _ know_?”

The last word is heavy with meaning.

“How do _ you _ know?

Margaery smiles, “Grandmother knows everything--it’s just good business.”

Olenna Tyrell was equally as terrifying as Tywin Lannister--maybe more so because she didn’t think whole swathes of information were beneath her. She paid attention to _ everything_, and that’s how she knew, or even suspected, about his relationship with Cersei. His father _ never _ looked, or he would have seen.

“I told her.”

Margaery pats him on the arm, “_Good_.”

* * *

They’ve been fucking for ten days.

Sansa has taken to unlocking the apartment door with her eyes closed, shouting, completely unnecessarily “Is everybody decent?!”

Brienne bought a box condoms the day after the first time, put them down on Jaime’s dining room table in a plastic sack from a drugstore.

“How’d that go?” he asked.

“F-fine,” she answered, “It’s like cold medicine, or bandaids. It’s something people buy all the time.” She’s not blushing like _ he _ makes her blush--she just looks mildly uncomfortable.

“Cold medicine doesn’t scream ‘I’m fucking someone!’ though.”

_ That _ box is gone in what seems like the blink of an eye--it definitely had more than ten condoms, and now they’re out again. That means there’s days where they fucked _ twice_. The second he’s alone with Brienne, it’s like they’re opposite poles on a magnet. They meet each other, crash together, can’t be pulled apart. And it’s not possession, or catharsis, or avoidance of some pressing conversation--it’s just _ good_.

And sure, there’s some stumbling, and neither of them are great at talking, but when Brienne holds him, lets him sit close to her on the couch, Jaime thinks _ I can do this_. 

Jaime has his first Friday off in what feels like his entire tenure working at Blackwater. That's certainly not accurate, but when Sansa invites Brienne and him out, Jaime turns her down.

"No, no, I get it," Sansa backs her way out the door, waving her hands dismissively, "what do you need with boring old Sansa Stark? Now that you're together, you can just abandon me."

"Sansa--"Brienne seems to think Sansa being serious.

Jaime jumps in,"_Go away_, unless you want a show."

"Maybe I do," Sansa counters, "what would you say then?" 

"Stay and find out."

Brienne puts her face in her hands.

Sansa cackles, "Just don't tell me the surfaces you defile, and move it behind closed doors by midnight."

"Yes, _ mom_."

"Have fun," Brienne says weakly.

"No, _ you _ have fun." Sansa waggles her fingers as she closes the door behind her. Her key turns in the lock, and her footsteps fade in the stairwell. 

"You didn't want to go, did you?"

"No," Brienne glances at him, then away, "We can order takeout and--"

Brienne's glance isn't meant to entice him, but it _ does_, so Jaime kisses her, hard and fast, crowds her against the arm of the couch. She grabs his shirt, tugs him he's half sprawled atop her. 

"We can eat later," he whispers between kisses, "I can make you a fancy grilled cheese."

"A fancy--?"

"Yeah, like with _ good _cheese and shit. Or fruit." 

A Friday night spent fucking on the couch, then cooking dinner; he could live like this forever.

"O-okay," Brienne’s smiling at him, bemused.

Jaime kisses her again, lets himself fall against her. Brienne emits a tiny _ oomph _ at his weight, but shifts to allow him to settle. It’s so _ good _ that she’s strong--Jaime can throw himself at her, and Brienne, always, _ always _ catches him. She’s solid and warm beneath him, and if his cock wasn’t already making its intentions known, Jaime might be equally happy to nap.

She has one hand on his back and the other in his hair--it’s time to trim it, probably, but not short enough that Brienne can’t grab at it in a fit of passion, like when he’d put his mouth against her cunt in the kitchen. _ Gods, she was so loud_. And she’d tugged at his hair until it _ almost _hurt, and Jaime was thrilled at what he’d done for her.

He looks down at her, now; her eyes look darker in the lamplight.

“Have I told you your eyes are beautiful?” 

Brienne freezes, _ blushes_. Surely Jaime’s said it--during the act, maybe, when he says whatever pops into his head.

“O-once, in the middle--” she stutters.

_ “Good_,” Jaime shifts, hopes she knows how hard she makes him, that she sees and feels what being close to her does. “Brienne, be on top today.”

Jaime keeps telling himself _ Brienne won’t know if you don’t ask_. He’s unaccustomed to asking; Cersei dictated what he wanted, and if he thought of something _ else_, she might indulge it, to hold over him later. His passivity in his own life created ripples, the outcomes of which he’s still discovering.

Brienne freezes, glances across the room. Jaime wants to shout _ keep your eyes on me_. 

“Y--you’d _ want _that?”

_ “Gods_, yes,” he blurts, disbelief evident. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“When Jonquil does it, she’s so...feminine,” Brienne’s voice is barely above a whisper, “and I’m...well..._ me_.”

“Brienne, you’ll look--” he doesn’t have the words, but the image of her, strong and confident, moving above him, pressing him into the couch, “It’ll be fucking fantastic.”

_ Please_, he nearly adds, but doesn’t want Brienne to feel pressured.

“I....do want to,” she admits; there’s so much shyness left in her.

“_Good_.”

Jaime slides off of her, kneels beside the couch, does everything he can think of to show Brienne what he sees. They _ fit _ like this--he knows it when he tugs Brienne’s shirt over her head, when she splays her hand on his back, warm and steady, when she gasps as he kisses down her chest and takes her nipple between his teeth. There’s no artifice in her reactions, no undercurrent of _ anything _but desire when she kisses him, undoes his jeans, tentatively circles her hand around his cock. 

“Jaime.”

From Brienne, in this moment, his name could be an entire paragraph. The affection that comes from her overwhelms him, and _ after_, she’ll see it in the way that he clings to her.

“There’s a condom, in my back pocket,” he gestures to his jeans in a heap on the coffee table.

“That was presumptuous of you,” she teases, and that’s an entirely new door Jaime wants to open. There’s a hundred ways he can think of to encourage that, to get Brienne to play that game with him. She could deny him, make him _ wait_, or _ ask_\--

“It’s just preparedness,” he answers, tries to sound even, “we’re alone for ten minutes and you’re on my cock, so--”

_ That _ makes her blush, a spectacular thing, "It..is kind of like that, isn't it?"

"It's _ exactly _ like that. Come here."

Condom in hand, Brienne returns to him. Jaime sheds the rest of his clothes and smiles at her. He lets her put it on because he wants her to touch him, even with something as perfunctory as this. After, she puts one knee on the couch beside him and looks at him.

Jaime can read her thoughts, how her desire wars with her uncertainty.

"Remember our pact," he steadies her, a hand on her hip. It’s not just Brienne--Jaime has to remind himself, too.

“R-right.”

Jaime grips her hips, course corrects the angle when needed, until Brienne sinks down on his cock. She bites her lip, looks at Jaime with wide blue eyes. There’s no movement from her, and she’s bracing her arms on the back of the couch.

“Brienne,” Jaime reaches over and takes one of her hands, puts it on his shoulder. He needs to have this conversation with her _ before _ she moves, or his faculties will shatter entirely, and he won’t be able to. “_Sit. _”

She nods, stops using her arm to hold herself up. “_Oh_,” she gasps, rocks against him, digs her fingers into his shoulders. Both of them are gripping too tightly, and neither seem to care. Jaime knows he doesn’t, at least. 

The weight of her is _ perfect_\--fuck dainty Jonquil and her heaving bosom. Brienne is _ powerful _ when she moves, thighs tightening around his as the pace becomes more frantic. She shuts her eyes, but Jaime doesn’t; he just watches her move and gets lost in the heat and the pressure of Brienne around him. She finds her confidence, leans down and kisses him, sloppy and uncoordinated. 

He rests his forehead against hers, sinks a hand into her hair to keep her close. “See,” Jaime whispers, “you’re _ made _for this.”

“_Jaime_, I feel--” his name is half whisper, half moan, “it's _ good_.” 

When Brienne comes, she clenches around him, makes a louder noise than he’s _ ever _heard from her. She open her eyes and watches him, moves again. The wet heat of her does Jaime in, and he follows her over the edge, repeating her name.

He’s overwhelmed, as always, by the intimacy of it--that Brienne _ stays_, holds him after, deals with his sentimental tendencies. 

“Are you okay?” she asks, pulls back enough to survey him with the same concerned expression she always has.

“Y-yeah,” he nods, “Sorry. You’re just...really _ good_.”

She furrows her brow, “Like...at sex?” 

The disbelief in her tone makes Jaime chuckle, “At _ everything_. Cooking, sex, listening to me complain, letting me sleep next to you--_everything_.”

Brienne smiles at him, a little shy, pink-cheeked under her freckles--_all _ of her is flushed, pale skin rosy with exertion. _ I did that_, he thinks, _ and she’s giving me that smile_.

Jaime’s hair is damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead. Brienne runs her fingers through it, gathers it behind his head and uses the tie around her wrist to hold it back. He thinks of Florian taking down Jonquil’s hair, pulling out the pins and ribbons. She pats the top of his head to smooth the hair down. All the intimacy Jaime longs for is right here; he’s definitely, _ definitely _ falling in love with Brienne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the ex Sansa refers to, it's probably Ramsay Bolton. Joffrey would work, too, but he doesn't exist in this universe. It also doesn't really matter who it was.
> 
> I gotta ask, does anyone have a guess who Tyrion's editor is? I dropped a hint, earlier, but I don't know if it was too subtle.


	11. Atleast in this Lifetime, We're Sticking Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Something's different."_
> 
> _"How can you tell that just from my tone?"_
> 
> _Her father chuckles, "I've known you your whole life; I can hear it."_
> 
> _Brienne smiles, "There's...a guy, I guess."_
> 
> _"You guess?"_
> 
> _"We haven't really...discussed it, yet."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't read [On the Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20854235), a one-shot I wrote for J/B week, it takes place roughly around this chapter. Not that reading it is necessary; it's entirely fanciful.
> 
> I _think_ this is my favorite chapter so far! Maybe I just love writing Selwyn? That's probably it. Especially in this fic, where he certainly listens to the Westeros equivalent of Jimmy Buffet.
> 
> This chapter contains an entire conversation about safe sex and birth control. I don't know if other people find this important, but I sometimes get pulled out of the narrative if the topic is hand waved away. It's part of a larger discussion of intimacy and trust, too, which is important.
> 
> Like all chapter titles, this one comes from a Mitski song. This time, it's "Me and My Husband."

Brienne's father always calls her when she's at work. He has the worst timing, but he sounds so pleased to speak with her that Brienne tries to stop what she's doing to talk to him.

This time, she calls him back on her lunch.

"I'm coming to King's Landing next week," he tells her.

She's silent long enough that her father says, "Brienne? Are you still there?"

"Y-yeah," Brienne answers, "that sounds great, Dad."

"What's wrong?"

"Why does something have to be wrong?"

_ Ugh. That sounded way too defensive. _

"Something's different."

"How can you tell that just from my tone?"

Her father chuckles, "I've known you your whole life; I can _ hear _ it."

Brienne smiles, "There's...a guy, I guess."

"You _ guess_?"

"We haven't really...discussed it, yet."

"It's not that Hyle fellow again, is it?" Brienne's sure he’s scowling.

"N-no. He lives in my building."

"Brienne--"

"My lunch is over! You can meet him when you're here," she blurts, "See you next week."

For the first time, _ ever_, Brienne isn't sure if she wants her father to visit. What if Jaime doesn't want to meet him? Maybe it's too soon, or too serious. 

They'll have to _ talk _ about it, and neither of them are great at that. 

* * *

"My dad's visiting next week."

_ There. _ She said it. It took her until bedtime, until Jaime asked if he could stay, for Brienne to broach the subject. Jaime _ always _ asks, like Brienne will boot him out into the hall.

"You don't have to ask.”

"You deserve space," Jaime answers, "Alone time is important. I don't want to smother you."

"Stay."

There's signs of him in her space--a shirt, a pair of tennis shoes thrown on the floor, a toothbrush he brought over. Brienne's left things in his space, too. 

Jaime gives her a bright smile, starts shedding clothing in that shameless way of his. Brienne can stare, _ does _stare, and Jaime waves at her. 

"You don't have to window shop," he pats her bed, "there's a pretty good try-before-you-buy policy, too."

"I'm, um, pretty confident in my selection." Brienne's not quick-witted, but _ sometimes _ she manages. 

Jaime laughs, "No returns, then." 

"No," she agrees, sits down beside him on the bed.

“I can make myself scarce while your dad is here.” 

There’s _ no _ change in Jaime’s expression, like he’s fine with being scrubbed from her life for the duration of her father’s visit. 

“N-no!” Brienne shakes her head rapidly, “I, um, told him about you--I didn’t say anything weird. He could tell from my tone I was hiding something. I’m a _ horrible _liar, and I--”

“You mentioned _ me_?”

“I’m sorry, if I shouldn’t have. I managed to avoid it the last few times he’s called since we--”

_ There’s _ the rub--since they what? Went on a few dates? Fucked _ a lot_? Is she going to go up to her father and say, “This is Jaime, my neighbor and sex friend.”

Jaime hugging her truncates the line of thought; Brienne catches him out of instinct, and he rests his chin on her shoulder.

“I don’t know how to meet parents,” the words come out rushed, in a single breath. 

“You don’t have to.”

“Let me. I’m used to my father, and someone who raised you _ can’t _ be like him,” Jaime’s silent for a moment, resting his head against hers, “We’ve never talked about... _ this_, have we?”

“You mean like a label?”

“A woman at work asked if I had a girlfriend,” Jaime says, “I said ‘yes.’ I think my tip was smaller, after that, but it was worth it.”

“Okay,” Brienne repeats it, “Okay. Can we tell Dad that, too?” Brienne tries to use “Jaime Lannister” and “boyfriend” in the same sentence, and her brain screeches to a full-stop. 

“It sounds less ridiculous than ‘neighbor sex friend.’”

“...You were thinking that, too?”

She feels Jaime nod, “And _ obviously _ that’s a strange fucking thing to say, so I just...said what felt right? People used to ask me that, _ before_, and I had to say no, obviously, but I’d always think ‘_I have a sister _’ but I could never--”

“Dad will like you.”

“You think? I want him to because I--you’re _ really _ important.”

Brienne moves away enough to look Jaime in the eye, “_Yes_. He’s coming from Tarth on his sailboat, Jaime; bring him some beer and tell him all your bad wooing attempts.”

* * *

“Condoms are expensive.”

Sansa starts laughing from her seat on the couch, “I get them free at school.”

“Well,” Brienne replies crossly, “_ Adults _ have to buy things.”

She laughs even harder, “It’s the price you pay for getting laid. _ Literally_.”

“I was thinking,” Brienne starts, slowly, “Should I consider something more..permanent?”

“Like getting your lady bits ripped out?” Sansa replies, much too chipper. “You wouldn’t have to worry, then.”

“Not _ that _ permanent!” Brienne wants children...maybe, in the future, in an amorphous sort of way. 

“I’m just giving you shit,” Sansa stands up, “Like an IUD, or the pill.”

“Is it too soon for that conversation?”

“Well,” Sansa tilts her head, “Do you plan on sleeping with anyone else?”

“N-no.”

“Do you think Jaime does?” she continues, “Actually, there’s _ no way _ he would. That was a stupid question.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“Isn’t there an OBGYN in your work building? Just go,” Sansa picks up a bag of chips off the counter and opens the bag with a loud crackle. “Tyrion keeps texting me, by the way, asking how Jaime’s doing.”

Brienne scowls, "Are you a _ spy_?"

"No, I'm an underpaid and under-qualified life coach," Sansa answers, "Tyrion is just worried about him. I don't mind answering, but what do I say?"

_ "Um_."

"Want me to say 'He's having awesome sex? They’re considering going raw?’" 

She sputters, and Sansa laughs, "I take that as a 'no.’ Maybe _ you _ should text Tyrion.'"

“I’m certainly not telling him that!” Brienne shrieks, "And do you think I know better than you?" 

"Depends on what Tyrion is asking. Does he want an update on Jaime's mental health, or does he want to know how his brother is doing at the horizontal tango? Although, the two _ are _ related. I don't mean to sound like I'm armchair diagnosing our third roommate, but Jaime has some _ fucked up _conceptions of sex and relationships. Dude needs a therapist."

"He talks to you," Brienne takes a handful of chips, "but have you asked Jaime if he _ wants _ a report sent to Tyrion?"

"I...guess that would be a good idea." Sansa pick up her phone and types rapidly. A minute late it buzzes. "He gave us carte blanche."

"He knows Tyrion worries."

"Someone has to. Does Jaime Lannister give the impression of a man who worries about himself?"

* * *

“My editor wants to meet you and Sansa,”

It’s not what Tyrion’s there to talk about, but it’s what he opens with.

“I get Sansa, but why _ me_?”

“You’re in my readership demographic, and I gave you an advanced reader copy. She’s also your age, so she thought it’d be good. I...also don’t think she has many friends. She’s kinda bossy.”

“Maybe she’ll get along with Sansa, then.”

Tyrion snorts, “She...might, actually.”

She met Tyrion for lunch three blocks from her office; Brienne can’t remember the last time she ate lunch she hadn’t packed for herself. It’s a Tuesday, too, which feels particularly indulgent. She chooses a salad and gets the dressing on the side.

“I know you want to pry about Jaime.”

“I’m just as much interested in the ridiculous image the two of us making sitting across a table from one another.”

They _ did _ look ridiculous--like two extreme ends of a spectrum.

“Eh,” Brienne shrugs, “I’m pretty used to getting looks.”

“Same,” Tyrion shrugs, too. “So, my brother.”

“What do you want to know?” There’s a war in Brienne over the outcome of this conversation. Tyrion is only being a concerned family member, but even with Jaime’s permission, it feels like violating his trust.

“You have to understand that Jaime doesn’t talk to me.”

“But you get along well.” Or, Brienne assumed that was the case.

“It’s not about our rapport,” Tyrion drums his fingers on the wood tabletop, “It’s that Jaime obfuscates what’s bothering him. It takes a keen eye to know, and even I miss things. He surely has revealed more to you than to me.”

Brienne stalls by taking a bite of salad, “He’s started talking about his...last relationship more recently.” 

They both freeze, and Brienne realizes they’re both adjudging if the other _ knows_. Surely, Tyrion does--it’s what Brienne assumed from the beginning.

“Cersei,” she whispers.

Tyrion’s expression shows obvious surprise. “Jaime _ told _ you?”

She nods, “She waited for him at his car after work one night, which kinda forced the situation.”

“Gods, she fucking _ would_. A restraining order would be _ lovely_, but Jaime would never pursue it.”

“He told her that he didn’t want to see her; I was...confused, at the time, but now I realize that must have taken a lot for him to do.”

They have to talk in veiled generalities; perhaps they should’ve met somewhere private.

“I didn’t even _ know _ about their relationship until I was probably fifteen,” Tyrion explains,”Our mother died when I was born, and she’s _ always _ hated me for that. I told Jaime, more than once, to leave her, but he never listened. Then _ I _left because who could stand it there?”

_ He feels guilty_. Brienne won’t ask that question, though. “It...wasn’t an easy thing to come to terms with. To shun him over it, though, when he’s so... _ good_, and kind, and trying so hard.”

“Their relationship reads like one of those posters in a rest stop bathroom,” Tyrion lowers his voice, “Isolation, belittling, not letting him make decisions. I know she’s slapped him at least once.”

There’s a poster like that in the restroom at her office; more than once, Brienne read the list of abusive behaviors and thought of the stories Jaime tells her about Cersei.

“I’m sure he hasn’t told me everything, but...yeah.”

“I think, sometimes, that I should have tried harder to talk to him. I don’t know--”

Brienne waves a hand to halt him, “Tyrion, Jaime _ only _ speaks fondly of you; that you’re the only one who’s ever supported him. Don’t beat yourself up over the past.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Jaime thinks he’s broken, and that it makes him unlovable.” The word _ love _ sticks in her throat, even as indirect as it was. “Show him that it isn’t true, and he improves. I think he’s doing well; Sansa does, too.”

“You and Sansa deserve the biggest fucking fruit basket.”

“I want good things for him,” she pauses, “No, I want to _ be _ a good thing for him.”

* * *

Brienne goes to the doctor two floors above her office and gets an IUD. The midwife, a woman named Gilly, who’s dating Jon’s roommate, Sam, sings its praises until Brienne is convinced.

Now, though, she has to have a _ conversation _ \--an awkward one; Jaime’s surely asleep before she works up the nerve. It's past her self-appointed bed time, and Jaime’s curled up in front of her. Brienne’s never asked, but it _ seems _to be his preference if she doesn’t initiate it, or he lets himself in and is there when she wakes. Granted, her sample size is still quite small.

"Are you awake?"

“Yep,” he answers.

“I, um, went to the doctor the other day.”

Jaime tenses, and Brienne regrets her phrasing, “Are you alright?”

“Yes!” she answers too loudly for the hushed darkness of the room. “N-not like that--I thought something other than condoms might be--something more _ permanent_.”

“Oh,” Jaime whispers, more like an exhale than an actual word, “Okay.”

“Not to pressure you,” she’s sort of glad Jaime isn’t looking at her, “I did it for myself, but I thought you should know, since we’re--”

“Fucking,” Jaime finishes, “together.”

“With each other,” she adds.

“_Dating_,” she hears the smile in Jaime’s tone. Then, a pause, “Could we, then, without…?”

“It should be fine, as long as--”

Brienne feels Jaime nod, “You’re the only one.”

“I know.”

“Brienne,” Jaime says her name so fondly.

“I, um,” she starts, cringing at how awkward she is, “can I touch you?”

She is, already, technically-- sharing a pillow, she has an arm around his waist, her front pressed against his back.

“Are _ you _ propositioning _ me_?” His tone is light, but there’s a breathless undercurrent.

Jaime tries to turn; Brienne holds him tighter to stop it. “Let me--I mean, I’ll start.”

He freezes, and Brienne knows she’s landed on _ something_. She moves her hand southward, palming his half-hard cock through his boxers. Startled, Jaime attempts to turn over again. 

“_Brienne-- _”

Undeterred, Brienne slips her hand under the fabric. Jaime pushes back against her at the first contact, repeats her name at the second. There’s minutiae to this that she doesn’t grasp yet-- the pacing, the tightness of her grip. _ She _ liked this, though; Jaime behind her, around her, _ taking _ her. He’d kissed her neck, whispered in her ear; Brienne isn’t sure what to say, but she can press her lips against his skin.

“Tell me,” she manages, barely audible into his ear. _ What to do, what you want. _

Jaime answers her--tighter, _ slower_; he gasps when she obliges, and Brienne listens when he changes his mind and says _ faster_. When he comes, he spills onto her hand and the sheets.

He presses his face into the pillow; it reminds Brienne of her own reaction--embarrassed that she enjoyed something that was made for pleasure. Jaime manages to reach the tissues on her nightstand with his fingertips, but the box topples to the floor when he pushes it. 

“Damn.”

Brienne moves to get them herself, but Jaime grabs her wrist. 

“What--”

“Improvising,” he says, seemingly more to himself than to her, before licking her palm, moving upwards between her fingers. 

She dies a little at the sight, and her resolve to not think about herself at all crumbles. Jaime continues until her hand is clean, then laces his fingers with her own.

_ Fuck_.

He shouldn’t have done that because now she’ll want to see it _ again_. She would have never, _ never _ thought of that on her own, and now the image is burned in her mind.

“It doesn’t taste great,” he exclaims, turning over a bit to look at her. 

“It doesn’t,” Brienne agrees, slightly dazed. _ What was I trying to accomplish again? _

Jaime turns over completely, kisses her, pulls until she’s atop him, “_You _ liked that, though.”

Well, there’s little point in denial, “Y-you could’ve just--I’d have to wash the sheets regardless. Sansa will give me that _ look_, but whatever. And that was for _ you_, so you don’t need to--”

The smile he gives her is deceptively innocent, “Do you want me to _ ask _for it?”

_ Yes_. Instead, she says, “I want you to feel--” _ Loved_. The word sticks again. _ I do, though, don’t I? _

“Ask me, and I’ll tell you.”

“Okay. How do you feel?”

“Like I want you to fuck me.” 

“Be more specific.” Brienne manages teasing, sometimes, _ thinks _that Jaime likes it--another thing she hasn’t asked.

“I’ll be _ very _specific.”

And Jaime _ does _ tell her, with words, or with a guiding hand. Skepticism gnaws at her, but she listens--locks her fingers with his and pins them against the pillow. He wiggles his fingers, tugs against her grip, laughs when freeing himself isn’t easy. He puts more effort into the gesture, and Brienne lets his hands slide away from hers.

Brienne watches him, “Is that...okay?”

Jaime laughs again, takes her hands back, “With you, yeah.”

Brienne may feel embarrassed, or vulnerable, but what Jaime wants isn’t beyond her to give. A little shyness is nothing compared to the intimacy of the trust he places in her. The ache in her heart, the one reading _ Florian and Jonquil _ created, is soothed by the way Jaime looks up at her.

So, she sinks down onto him, nothing between them, moves with a rhythm gained from practice, and keeps her eyes open when Jaime asks her to. 

And, she’s a zombie at work the next day, but she can’t regret it.

* * *

Selwyn Tarth arrives just over a week later.

"It’s alright if you don’t want to go," Brienne tells Jaime when she's about to leave with Sansa to meet him. 

"Sansa's going," Jaime crosses his arms.

"I gotta greet Second Dad!"

"See," Jaime repeats, "We gotta go greet Second Dad."

Brienne rolls her eyes at both of them. They're eerily similar, standing side-by-side with their arms crossed. Brienne must have a type.

Sansa only met Brienne's father twice, once when they moved into the apartment, and a second time when he visited the month before Jaime moved next door. 

"I wish you were _ my _ dad," Sansa told Selwyn, "Not to like...replace _ my _ dad because he's great, but like...an extra dad. A _ second _dad!"

And the name stuck ever since.

"You'll have to take the bus to the harbor with us," Brienne warns.

Jaime answers with a haughty, affected _ humpf_, "It's good to see how the peasants travel."

"I can probably fit in the trunk of Jaime's car," Sansa chimes in.

"That won't look like we kidnapped you _ at all_."

"Don't you love it when Brienne jokes?"

"I _ totally _ do," Jaime agrees.

Brienne has to buy Jaime's bus pass from the automated terminal. He doesn't know the bus lines and stares at the map until the machine times out. 

"That's... complicated," he says when the machine spits out two tickets.

"How do you use an ATM?" Brienne asks.

"That's not the same at all."

It's a Friday afternoon, and as Brienne expects, the bus is standing-room only. The three of them end up crammed together near the back door. It's not the best standing spot, but it will make exiting easy.

"I got _ so _ lost the first time I rode the bus," Sansa says, "I used my phone to plan the route, but the times and stops were _ all _ wrong."

"It's a good thing I have an escort," Jaime is in a good humor

More people board at the next stop, and the standing room decreases by increments each stop until Jaime is pressed up against her.

There's an innocent, wide-eyed expression Jaime adopts when he's about to do something _ bad_. He smiles, and blinks at her. Brienne will give him a pointed look, and Jaime, like a cat who's about to knock something off a table, will ignore it in favor of _ whatever _ he wants to do. 

_ Oh no_.

Brienne’s clearly a pervert because her imagination, untethered, conjures something _ truly _ inappropriate that might involve reaching under clothing. _ Sansa’s right there, surely he wouldn’t _\--

Sansa’s looking at phone, not paying them an ounce of attention.

Jaime rests his chin on her shoulder and invades her space a bit more. “Were you thinking something dirty?” His tone is more indecent than his movements.

“I--I was--” Brienne admits, “don’t do it, though.”

The bus lurches to a stop, and Jaime uses it to his advantage.

“You know,” he whispers, “I’d do this again.”

* * *

Selwyn Tarth looks much as he did the last time Brienne saw him--gray, bearded, and wearing cargo shorts and a tacky, tropical print shirt. His sailboat, the _ Just Maid, _ is docked in the usual slip he rents at the harbor.

“Your dad looks like he had a midlife crisis and bought a boat,” Sansa said the first time they met.

And, well, that’s pretty much _ exactly _what happened; her mother passed away, and when Brienne went off to college, Selwyn rented out their house on Tarth and sailed around Westeros--to Essos, and Lys, and the Free Cities.

Selwyn holds out his arms, and Sansa runs to him, shouting “Second Dad!”

They embrace, and her father picks Sansa up off the ground. It makes Brienne a bit jealous because, while her father is taller than her, he won’t be lifting Brienne off the ground anytime soon. 

“Hi Sansa,” Selwyn says.

A childish part of Brienne wants to run down the dock ramp and hug her father, but she’s over six feet tall and will look ridiculous bounding down the dock. She has Jaime to consider, too, who’s trailing a few feet behind her. Was he regretting coming? A glance backwards reveals him looking at the planks of the dock with his hands stuffed in his jean pockets.

“Brienne!”

Her father calls her name and diverts her attention away from Jaime. He’ll be fine...probably.

“Hi, Dad,” she answers, walking the rest of the way to him. He hugs her, and it may not be as enthusiastic as Sansa's running tackle, but Brienne is glad for it. "You look... _ really _tan."

"I've been in Dorne," he answers. 

"Ah, so jealous!" says Sansa, "The _ food!" _

"It was very good," Selwyn replies, “_ so _ many olives.”

“Right?!”

Brienne smiles at the two of them, "How long can you stay?"

"The family renting the house have it for ten more days,” he answers, “but I can stay longer, if there’s a reason.”

“As long as you’d like,” Brienne says. Then, “Oh, um, I brought--or, rather, he _ insisted _on coming--”

Selwyn looks past her, straight at Jaime, “I see him.”

Would her father get neighbor Jaime, or magazine Jaime? Jaime could perform, much more adeptly than Brienne, but he has moments of startling awkwardness. She _ likes _those moments where he stumbles, needs caught, and is human. 

_ Be calm, _ she tries to project the thought to him.

Gratefully, her father walks up to Jaime and holds out his hand, “I’m Selwyn Tarth, Brienne’s father.”

Jaime smiles, bright but a _ little _strained, “I’m Jaime,” he pauses, like his surname will ruin the first impression. He’d done the same outside her window that first day. “...Lannister,” he finishes after a pause.

Her father knows the name, of course, and his expression telegraphs it utterly. Brienne inherited her inability to hide her reactions from him.

“_Lannister_?” he echoes, “Brienne neglected to tell me _ that _part. How did you two even meet?”

“He moved in next door!” Sansa jumps in, slings an arm around both Jaime and Brienne’s shoulders, “Then, we adopted him because we didn’t want the building burned down.”

“Sansa, that’s a _ terrible _ explanation,” Selwyn chuckles, “but you can tell me the rest over dinner.”

* * *

Dinner is fish and chips at a place overlooking the water.

The fried food is heavy, but Brienne eats it anyway; the other three at the table seem to be bonding over a shared love of tartar sauce.

“So, you and my daughter,” Sewlyn gives Jaime an appraising look, “Tell me the story. Brienne didn’t mention you over the phone, so she must be serious about you.”

_ “Dad_,” Brienne groans, “it just...it never came up.”

“You avoided it,” he argues, “and I _ know _you, Brienne, you never keep secrets. Humor your old man.”

“I moved in next door,” Jaime says, “I was in a bit of a--um, I mean Sansa and Breinne were really helpful.”

Sansa grins like she wants to tease Jaime but refrains to help him keep some semblance of good impression.

“Lannister,” Selwyn repeats, “I’m sorry, but you don’t _ look _ like you’re up to your eyes in gold dragons.”

“Second Dad, he’s in exile,” Sansa takes a sip of her beer.

“Exile?”

“A year ago, I cut all ties with my father, and the money went with it,” Jaime looks uncomfortable, and Brienne does her usual gesture of putting her hand on his knee under the table. “So, I’ve learned to live like a normal person. It’s been...enlightening.”

“And what led you to such a decision?”

“I wasn’t happy, and my father doesn’t value that, and I thought _ what if another ten years pass like this? _ And there’s no compromise with Tywin Lannister, so I left.”

Jaime sound certain, and _ confident_, and Brienne fights the urge to kiss him for it; patting his knee encouragingly will have to do.

“Then we cooked, and, um, went jogging, and hung out,” Brienne adds.

“And Jaime came to me and said ‘I have a crush on your roommate!’” Sansa raises the pitch of her voice in a _ terrible _ impression of Jaime. “Then I played matchmaker, and _ bam!” _

“Bam,” Jaime repeats, although much less excitedly.

Selwyn studies the two of them again; Jaime must be accustomed to Tywin Lannister’s gazes because he doesn’t flinch. “Bold of you, to reject your father’s path for you. Without working for him, you must…”

“There’s a brewery, in Flea Bottom, where I work. It’s not a career, but I--”

“Hey,” Brienne interrupts.

Something about that makes her father smile at her.

Sansa rests her chin in her hand and watches them with a sigh, “They’re like a romance novel, Second Dad. It gets gross to witness, but you can’t stop yourself.”

* * *

They’re twenty minutes out of the harbor the next morning before Brienne realizes her father’s ploy inviting her to go sailing _ alone_.

“So,” her father crosses his arms over today’s topical shirt, “_ Jaime Lannister_.”

_ And now I can’t run, lest I swim back to the dock. _Brienne thinks of trying, though. She is a strong swimmer and could dive off the side of the boat.

Brienne crosses her arms and glares, like she did as a child when she misbehaved. She can remember looking her father in the eye and lying to him when she made a mess or broke something, even if the mess was right behind her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Selwyn starts laughing, boisterously enough that he has to lean against the side of his boat. “_Brienne_. The man was glued to your side all through dinner. It _ does _ seem out of a dream, but I’m pretty confident I was awake when I heard _ my daughter _ is dating the heir to the Lannister empire. Tell me the details.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Brienne answers, “Jaime’s...just Jaime. It’s been about a month.”

“You’ve _ never _ introduced me to anyone,” her father replies, “which means he’s _ special_.”

Her father loves her, and has never understood what people _ don’t _ see in her. To him, she should have all the choices in the world. Brienne loves him for it, but it also makes talking to him hard because he’s never understood _ why _ anyone would bully or mock her.

“It’s not that I didn’t introduce you, it’s that they’re never been anyone.” 

“But you’re _ my _daughter, Brienne. How can that be?”

“It just is,” she answers, looking over the water. She used to daydream of sailing until her problems vanished. 

“How old is he?”

Brienne hesitates--they’d celebrated Jaime’s birthday a few weeks ago, before they’d even kissed, “Thirty-six.”

_ She _ didn’t think about their age difference, but her father might. Age didn’t matter when he kissed her, or climbed into bed with her, or grabbed her hand under the table at a restaurant. 

“And he’s a bartender,” her father replies.

“I don’t care about that stuff,” Brienne answers, “you raised me not to be shallow.”

Selywn laughs, “I did indeed.”

“I respect him for realizing he was unhappy, and for trying to change. He rejected all the comfort and wealth he was born into. He’s kind, and _ good_, and he--he wants _ me_.”

“Brienne,” Selwyn comes to stand beside her near the prow of the boat, “I’m going to ask you a question your mother would’ve asked. She’s not here, so I’ll do it in her stead. Have you slept with him?”

She blushes, and her father starts laughing again. _ Even if I lied, he would know by my damned face. _

“Yes.”

Selwyn puts his arm around her shoulders and squeezes. “The first, right?”

“_Obviously_.”

She glances in the direction of the city--it’s _ definitely _ too far to swim. _ Gods, I really do want to jump in the water now_.

Another laugh. “And he’s good to you? You don’t feel pressured, or belittled, or that he’s using it to have power over you?”

“None of that,” she answers, remembers Jaime telling her he was worried about being like Cersei. _ She did all those things to him. _“Jaime’s better than I ever thought I’d have.”

“That’s all I wanted to hear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd looooove to know what everyone thought of Selwyn ahahahaha.
> 
> And the smut! Jaime gets more bottom-y as the story goes. 🤷


	12. I'm Not Gonna Be What My Daddy Wants Me To Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Even on their second meeting, Selwyn Tarth makes no fucking sense._
> 
> _Brienne’s father wouldn’t be an asshole--she’s is too kind, too bright of a sun to have been raised under the shadow of some tyrant. But Jaime only knows one type of father, and Selwyn breaks that image and leaves him utterly confused._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished writing this fic today, which is great because I was getting stressed out about catching up with my posting schedule. It also means I can focus on new things!
> 
> Chapter title is from Mitski's song "Townie." It's not a _good_ title, but Tyrion and Jaime's continued defiance of Tywin reminded me of it, and it made me laugh. 
> 
> This chapter also has my favorite smut! Not that I sit around ranking the smut in my fanfics or anything...

Even on their second meeting, Selwyn Tarth makes no fucking sense.

Brienne’s father wouldn’t be an asshole--she’s is too kind, too bright of a sun to have been raised under the shadow of some tyrant. But Jaime only knows one type of father, and Selwyn breaks that image and leaves him utterly confused.

They go out on Selwyn’s boat.

Her father’s text from the night before read, _Bring Jaime,_ _if he’s free!_

And, really, how can Jaime say no? To be asked to be included, invited and welcomed into a new aspect of Brienne’s life.

Jaime _ likes _ the water--summers spent at Casterly Rock diving off the sheer cliff face into the sea. Cersei, laughing and splashing him; a simpler relationship for a simpler time. Tywin would think a sailboat utterly fanciful, but he couldn’t stop them from swimming. He couldn't stop their mother from packing a picnic basket and driving them to the beach.

If Jaime were a younger man, he’d jump off the boat and swim, let the sea scrub away the shitty thoughts that clutter his mind. The wind off the water isn’t as warm as a month ago, though. Swimming would make him cold, and Selwyn might not appreciate him clinging to Brienne like a barnacle for warmth.

Winter, even a mild King’s Landing one, is going to be fun. Maybe they could visit Winterfell, and he can stick his hands in Brienne’s coat pockets. _ I’m getting sentimental about the passing of seasons_.

He looks at Brienne; she’s wearing sunglasses and a floppy hat; it looks like something Selwyn would wear, like they’re about to go fishing. The boat has a motor--sensible, really--and Brienne’s driving it. 

_ Of _ course _ Brienne Tarth can drive a boat_. 

Brienne told him to ingratiate himself to her father with beer, so he did just that. Selwyn, hilariously, is seated along one of the benches along the side of the boat drinking a bottle of Wench.

“It’s better on tap,” Jaime says because apparently he’s walking tap list.

“I’ll have to try it,” Selwyn answers, holds up the bottle and clanks it against Jaime’s own.

Bronn will fucking never let Jaime live it down if Selwyn visits the Blackwater. _ Fine, _ Jaime thinks, _ let him mock me_. _ What the fuck do I care? _

“I can get you a free round,” Jaime feels like an idiot for saying that--only the broke kids he works with would be _ that _ compelled by free booze.

“Done,” Selwyn replies with a booming laugh, “You’re the first man my daughter has _ ever _ introduced me to.”

_ Is that good? Is that bad? _

“It’s because I’m such a prize that she couldn’t resist,” Jaime replies, taking a swig of beer. “No, I, uh--don’t have much experience with this, either.”

_ Why am I telling him this? _

“A heartbreaker?” Selwyn is still smiling, but Jaime is suddenly quite wary of what his expression looks like under his reflective sunglasses. “Gossip rags say you’re a player. Are you going to do that to my daughter?”

“N-no,” Jaime stumbles, caught off guard, “don’t believe gossip magazines.” He steals a glance at Brienne--she’s talking to Sansa, and the wind off the water would mask their conversation.

“But you _ are _Jaime Lannister.”

“I am,” Jaime answers, tries to remember to watch himself, to not let his fool mouth get him in trouble. “And I know, I’m too--” _ Old. A sister-fucking loser. A wreck, not a snack. _ “I’m unworthy of her.”

Then, he feels a rush of anger because how does he undo two decades of a reputation? People expect the behavior he projected, the assumptions he didn’t correct because he told himself he didn’t care.

“Now, now, son,” Selwyn waves a hand at him.

“I--I don’t think we’re quite to that yet, but I--”

_ Son. _ Fuck, he _ could _be that, couldn’t he? Would Brienne marry him? Is that what Selwyn expects?

Jaime’s face must show all because Selwyn‘s booming laughter alerts Sansa and Brienne, who look at them. The wind shifts, and Jaime ends up with a mouthful of his own hair that’s escaped Brienne’s hair tie. He should learn to do it himself, but then Brienne might stop, and he doesn’t want that.

“Sit,” Selwyn says, still laughing, “Your _ face_. It’s just a turn of phrase, you know.”

He sits, stares down into his beer bottle and tries to think of a response. Brienne and Sansa have returned to their own conversation, which is a shame because Sansa’s teasing would be a nice break from the conversation.

“I’ve had a challenging year,” Jaime decides to be honest. “That may seem like bullshit given the privilege I was born into. Leaving was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, which maybe means I’m weak.”

“Difficulty is relative,” Selwyn responds.

“Gods, you really _ did _ raise Brienne,” Jaime blurts, “She’s said that to me _ so _ many times. I’m, um, prone to fits of self-pity, I guess.”

“My daughter is wise,” he replies, “but she carries the weight of people who’ve treated her poorly.”

“People are fucking assholes.”

Selwyn laughs again, “That’s true. Brienne hasn’t lost her kindness, though.”

“No, she has more of that than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“And that’s what you see most?”

Jaime nods and takes another beer from the cooler, “I do. She’s so genuinely helpful. I’ve never met anyone like that.”

He sees other things, too, but he’s not going to tell Brienne’s father about what he likes about fucking her, or waking up entwined with her. Selwyn certainly doesn’t want to know what his daughter does behind closed doors.

Selwyn finishes his beer and takes another, “Brienne told me you’re good to her.”

“I, um, I try to be.”

“Good, _” _ he looks at Jaime. “Her mother passed away when Brienne was young, so it’s up to me to ask those mortifying questions about her sex life."

* * *

Selwyn doesn’t fit on the barstools at the Blackwater any better than Brienne does. He looks mildly more ridiculous, twisted to the side because his knees won’t fit under the bar. And, if Jaime is too old to be there by a decade, everyone is looking at Selwyn like “Who invited gramps? Isn’t it past his bedtime?”

The tropical shirt probably doesn’t help.

“Is Brienne with you?” Jaime passes Selwyn the current tap list, waiting to give his usual rundown. He’s good at it now, even when some pedantic beer fanatic asks him irritating questions.

“She mentioned coming after work,” Selwyn answers.

Jaime likes her sitting across the bar, resting her chin in her hand and drinking something he picked. She watches him work and doesn’t get jealous if women flirt with him. His tips are lower, maybe, because he mentions Brienne and doesn’t play along with women’s advances. Fuck tips, though--tips won’t banter with him, won't pin him to the bed and ride him until he comes so hard he sees stars.

"Oi," Bronn interrupts his thoughts, "Your customer has questions, you lovesick cunt."

Jaime shakes his head like it will clear away his prurient train of thought. 

"Sorry, um, Mr. Tarth."

Bronn cackles, "Fucking hell, Jaime, is that Brienne's _ dad_?"

"You can just call me Selwyn," he puts down the tap list. “In my day there were ten beer choices, and _ none _ of them were this fucking complicated.”

"You were probably thinking something fucking indecent," Bronn says, “With her dad _ right fucking here_.”

"Fuck you."

Selwyn laughs, "You're free to ignore me, as long as you're daydreaming about my daughter."

* * *

“Is this how people felt seeing me behind the bar when they went to Blackwater?”

Sansa just replies, “Yep.”

“Margaery thought she was having a hallucination,” Brienne adds, “And I would’ve thought the same..”

“I _ told _ you I was bringing my editor,” Tyrion looks at the three of them, “Now you’re just being rude, and I told her the three of you were _ nice_.”

Tyrion’s editor, much like Jaime himself, has an appearance that shouts her pedigree from the rooftops--the pale, silver-white hair, the violet eyes. Daenerys Targaryen looks like she stepped out of ancient Valyria and into the shabby landing of their apartment building.

Jaime’s never met her, but he _ knows _ her. Her father, Aerys, lost his ass in a business merger with the Baratheons over a decade ago. Tywin used the story as a cautionary tale about _ knowing your opponent_. It’s half the reason Cersei married Robert; Tywin wanted to make sure he could _ use _the Baratheons, should they turn on him.

“Hello,” Daenerys says mildly, “I’m Tyrion’s editor, Daenerys.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Brienne replies.

“As though we couldn’t tell,” Sansa rolls her eyes.

“It’s the hair,” Jaime raises a hand and flips his own in a bid to make Brienne scoff; it works. “I know your pain.”

“Or the eyes,” Daenerys replies, glancing at the floor. “I wanted to introduce myself professionally and not have..._ that _ following me.”

Jaime can’t help but laugh, “If you figure out how to accomplish that, I’ll pay you for the trade secret.”

“Same, honestly,” Daenerys looks down at Tyrion, “You didn’t tell me your _ brother _ was one of the people you gave the advanced reader copy to.”

Daenerys should _ probably _ hate him--or at least resent the not-insignificant Lannister part of her family’s financial demise. Not that Jaime did anything _ personally_, but old houses and their grudges are a thing to behold. 

“I...wanted you to be surprised?” Tyrion tries, “And it’s not just Jaime! There’s Sansa, and Brienne, Jaime’s…”

“Girlfriend,” Jaime replies smugly. 

Brienne turns a _ bit _ pink, ever endearing, and Jaime thinks, even more smugly, _ mine_.

Suddenly, Daenerys is all business, “Did they sign the NDAs?”

“Yes, your highness.”

The expression in her violet eyes tells Jaime that Daenerys is terrifying in the right context. Tyrion needs someone like that to reign him in; a ruthless editor who enforces deadlines.

“We signed away our kidneys on the black market, have no fear,” Sansa sounds utterly unconcerned. 

They crowd around Jaime’s coffee table; he gives Brienne the armchair and sits on the floor, while Sansa, Tyrion, and Daenerys sit in a row on his couch.

“You know,” Daenerys turns to Jaime, “don’t you think you’re an odd reader of your brother’s romance novels?”

Jaime replies, “I’m just trying to be a supportive sibling; most of my family is fucking horrible.”

Sansa starts laughing, “Jaime likes the mushy parts.” 

“The smut just reminds me that my brother is better with women than I am,” Jaime affects an offended tone. It sounds like what someone would expect him to say, in his old life. 

No, Jaime only wants one woman at a time; it will be Brienne until she casts him aside. He hopes she’ll keep him because he can't imagine another after her. He'd thought that about Cersei, but Jaime didn't know himself very well.

And now he _ does_,

"Whatever you say, loverboy," Sansa says.

Brienne starts outright laughing.

Only Daenerys isn't giving him major side-eye, “Before we make Tyrion cry, let’s discuss logistics.”

“The big reveal!” Tyrion exclaims, “I still think we need to plant a mole at the gala. We can get one of those spy cameras.”

“I’m still hashing out the details with marketing; the idea is to announce the release of the book on the day of the gala," Daenerys explains. "They think leaking the info early on social media to create some hype will work best. It will be a PR shitstorm, and I am going to relish _ every _ second of it."

Maybe, _ maybe _Daenerys does hold a bit of a grudge.

“Oh, Tywin Lannister won’t pay _ any _ attention to rabble like that.” Jaime can hear him saying _ rumors are beneath us_.

“_Gods, _ this is going to be brilliant.”

Brienne, chimes in, “If you want someone to film Tywin’s reaction, Margaery will be at the gala, won’t she?”

Jaime could kiss her for the idea, but he settles for moving against the front of the armchair, close enough to lean against her leg. The idea of just being able to do that hasn't lost its shine.

"I knew we kept Brienne around for a reason," Sansa claps her hands in excitement.

"You mean it's not paying half the rent, or being able to cook an edible meal?" Brienne's jokes are dry, as usual, but everyone laughs this time. 

"It's that, too," Sansa makes a snooty _ hmmph _ noise.

"This will be like the finest Dornish vintage," Tyrion says, "_ Piquant_, truly."

"Well," Daenerys whips a notebook out of her briefcase, "Let's make this book as scintillating as possible, just to really stick it to the old bastard. Hit me with your comments."

"Hit _ us _ with your comments," Tyrion corrects, "I wrote the damn thing."

“You’re good,” Daenerys says, “most of the time, at the conventions of the genre. Innately, too, like before I’ve even read your drafts. _ I _ made it worth publishing, though.”

“Are you..._ praising _me?”

“Don’t get accustomed to it,” she replies, “We want your ego small enough that you can fit through doors.”

Tyrion shrugs, “I’m quite short, so there’s plenty of room for my hubris.”

* * *

“Who wants coffee?”

Or tea. Or that kombucha shit that Brienne will _ never _ convince him is good.

“Oooh, me!” Sansa exclaims “Making Tyrion cry is _ exhausting_.”

“I could use a boost,” Daenerys agrees.

It’s been at least an hour, or maybe an entire day--time lost all meaning when Sansa and Daenerys started reading passages aloud, critiquing tone and verb choices. It’s a verbal ping pong match that stuns even _ him _ into silence. He zoned out, eventually, resting his head against Brienne’s knee.

“I’ll go _ and _ buy.” Anything to get a break from this conversation. Jaime tries to stand up and finds that his legs are asleep; he wobbles and nearly crashes into Brienne’s lap. A fine place to land, but maybe not in front of guests; it might get _ heated_.

“Too old to sit on the floor for that long?” she teases, but takes his hands to steady him.

“Yeah,” he answers, “Come with?”

“Of course.”

“Jaime, get me my usual!” Sansa yells when they exit his front door.

“...He knows your usual?” he hears Daenerys ask.

"Of course," Sansa replies, "We've been to brunch enough times that he ought to."

_ What must Daenerys be thinking? _

“You were bored,” Brienne says once they’re outside.

The air is a _ bit _ cool--fall in King’s Landing is a subtle change.

"I'm not much of a reader," Jaime shrugs, "half that shit is stuff I'd never notice."

"You didn't enjoy Sansa's mini-lecture on the 'female gaze'?"

"That part wasn't bad, actually," he replies as they start walking down the block. "The part about verb choices was the worst."

"Yeah," Brienne replies, "Maybe 'hammered' _ isn't _ a good, um, sex word."

She blushed through that whole segment of the conversation.

"Sex isn't always romantic," Jaime pushes the button for the crossing signal. "But _ that _ scene was, so the word was weird."

"I know it's not always like that." 

Jaime leans a bit closer and lowers his voice. "I thought I understood what it felt like with someone you--with someone _ important_," he amends. "I didn't even recognize the difference until I read that fucking book."

"_That _ would have made a good addition to the discussion."

"I'm not prepared for the ribbing Tyrion would give me over that."

Brienne pats his arm, "It's fine that you appreciate the female gaze of the narrative."

Well, now they can fucking blush _ together_. The light changes, and they cross the intersection.

Jaime's learned a lot about what love looks like in the last year. Cersei's definition wasn't true, and once he learned that, it left him blindly fumbling to ascertain it on his own. 

"Brienne," he blurts when they've walked half the the block where the coffee shop is located. She stops and looks back at him. "There's something I want to tell you, but I'm being craven about it."

"Okay," she says, completely neutral. He admires that she waits to hear the whole of things before freaking out.

"Cersei used love to manipulate me." A soft entrance to the conversation--to utter the word in another context. "She never said it freely; it was always attached to an _ if_. And it's not just her fault; I said it because I was trying to to possess her. I was always terrified she'd leave, and I'd have nothing."

A stupid, misguided notion on _ both _their parts.

"Jaime, you don't have to--"

He shakes his head and stops walking, "No. I'm waiting for a moment where I won't feel like I'm doing to you what Cersei did to me. I'm _ terrified _of being her."

Even if their oneness was a fallacy, they were the product of an identical environment.

"You're nothing like her."

"And I am glad you think that. If I want a moment, though, I have to make one."

The moments he feels brave enough to tell Brienne are moments where Cersei would have used the words--in the middle of sex, when she knew it would stick with him, and she could use the power later, or right before asking him to do something. He doesn't want the expression of his love for Brienne to be a weapon. And he doesn't want to be passive, hoping to hear it from her, not when he's brimming with the feeling.

Could a more banal, everyday moment exist, though? The sun is setting; he's about to walk into a coffee shop and order Sansa coffee disguised as a milkshake. Brienne is watching him, hair in a bun that's half falling down.

"I don't expect a response." His feelings for Brienne are the most selfless emotion he's ever held. "But I'm _ definitely _ in love with you. It probably started the day you bought me that green juice that tasted like bog water."

He's going to have a heart attack. And maybe Jaime was telling himself a lie about not expecting a response because if Brienne doesn't love him, in this moment, Jaime feels like he'll die on the spot. He wants Brienne to take him into her arms, to forget Sansa's mocha ice cream whatever and take him to bed. Things are _never_ as good as when Brienne puts her hands on him.

"It's healthy," Brienne repeats--she sounds a bit dazed, "spinach and wheatgrass."

"Swamp shit."

She takes his hand and pulls him out of the middle of the sidewalk, "We're in people's way."

"Can you answer?" 

_ Gods, I am the neediest motherfucker. _

Brienne laughs, undoes his constitution even further by looking at him. "I thought you'd want to know. You're impatient."

"You like making me wait."

_ Does that sound like it's filled with innuendo? _Jaime hopes it does. And of course Brienne sees through him.

Her scowl tells him the suggestion landed, but Brienne surprises him by answering, "I do, but not about this. Only, I'm nervous."

"Me too."

"I love you, too," she shuts her eyes. "I mean, it _ has _ to be that, right?"

"Yes," Jaime answers immediately, "It makes me feel like I'm losing my mind."

"That might just be you." 

Brienne leans down and kisses him. Jaime resists turning it into a public indecency issue, lets Brienne pulls away after not _ nearly _ enough time. 

"Can we ditch the rest of the book discussion?"

"They're in _ your _ apartment," Brienne raises her eyebrows. "If you want an ounce of peace, we should finish this errand."

Jaime smiles brightly, "I don't _ think _ my neighbor will care if we fuck in her apartment."

* * *

Sansa gives them a once-over when they drop the cardboard drink carrier off. "You guys look like you have plans."

"We're taking our leave of you, yeah."

She laughs, "I'm ordering pizza later."

"We'll be back, then." 

As the door to his apartment closes, Jaime hears his brother ask, "Are they going to--"

"Probably," Sansa replies, "they're in the 'horny teen' phase."

Brienne kisses him on the landing; a frenzy overtakes her usual calmness, and she’s messy and insistent. When Jaime's back bumps against her front door, Brienne holds him still with a hand in his hair while she fumbles, left-handed, with the key. 

The knob turns, and the door opens. Jaime would stumble, fall inward, but she catches him with a strong arm around his waist, her keys pressing into his back. She kicks the door shut and navigates the two of them through her living room. Jaime throws his arms around her neck, keeps his eyes closed, trusts that Brienne will lead them.

Her bed, lower to the floor than his own, against the back of his calves is familiar. Jaime takes the initiative, flops back taking Brienne with him.

That was _ probably _ her goal.

And, with one of Brienne‘s knees on the bed between his own, and her hands flat on the comforter, bracketing his head, Jaime feels delightfully _kept._ Brienne wants him, and her guileless expression reveals it.

And _ fuck _ if that isn’t just the best thing.

"When did you get so assertive?" 

She smiles at him, “When I realized you liked it.”

That Brienne _ adapts _to him, thinks about what he wants, tries it.

“_Fuck_, Brienne.” 

“Not yet,” she’s lightly scolding.

They play a game with ever-shifting rules. Brienne’s newly-found confidence, her knack for teasing him, goes straight to Jaime’s cock. _ I helped her gain that, didn’t I? _

Jaime smiles up at her, keeps his tone lilting, “I’d _ never _contradict you.” 

“Yeah, _ okay_,” Brienne rolls her eyes, kisses him, “you’ve never been contrary, even o_nce_.”

Brienne moves off him, and they work their way up the bed until Jaime rests against the pillows. She kneels next to him and bats away his hands when Jaime reaches for her clothes. 

“Ah,” Jaime nods, “so it’s _ that _ today.” His voice sounds breathless, a hint of the feeling Brienne generates in him leaking into the tone. She’ll touch him, and he’ll listen to her, until he’s wound tight and she comes to him, grants him the pleasure of finding release with her.

“Is that okay?” Now, she’s blushing, a heady combination of timid and assertive. 

“It’s fucking _ perfect_.”

Brienne doesn’t need to ask, but she always, _ always _ does. She _ loves _ him, and she’s sliding her hands under his t-shirt and kissing him. Jaime’s heart races, and his feelings are too overwhelming, like they won’t fit inside him. 

It’s strange, to be pliant and let Brienne work. Cersei, not that he wants to think of her in this moment, would _ never _ dote on him. She wouldn't pull his shirt over his head, trail her fingers over his chest, and press her lips against his collarbone on her journey southward. Brienne does all that, thinks about what she can _ give _him, leaves him with tingling skin and aching cock in the wake of her touch.

Jaime reaches for her, to touch her freckled cheek, or slide a hand through her hair. She’s near the waistband of his jeans when his hand lights on the pale strands of her hair sliding over his abdomen. She spares him a glance, and Jaime’s throat go dry; her eyes are _ always _ arresting, but nothing enhances the expression like desire, especially when she’ll scold him for getting ahead of her. He reaches his other hand to the button of his jeans and she intercepts it, presses it against the comforter. 

“I didn’t ask for your help,” she teases. Brienne does the deed herself, undoes the button and pushes his jeans and boxers down in one swift motion, freeing his cock to the warm air of the room.

They tangle around his ankles, and Jaime kicks wildly to free himself. “I, uh, wanted to expedite the process.”

“Maybe I didn’t.” There’s just a _ hint _ of command in Brienne’s tone.

_ When did she get so good? _

Jaime already remembers the warmth of her around him. Her hand, her mouth, the heat of her cunt--he’s not going to rank them; they’re all _ her_, and he wants them. He doesn't have a chance to ask or contemplate because Brienne circles her fingers around his cock, a tentative upward slide. Then, she looks up at him, an unspoken question in her eyes.

“Why would I stop you?” 

Brienne knows why, though; it’s a vestige of Cersei’s influence. They had a mortifyingly awkward conversation where Jaime admitted that giving was one thing, he _ liked _ giving, liked being the one to make her fall apart, but receiving was another matter entirely. She kissed him, then looked him in the eye and answered _ I like giving, too_.

The sentiment shows because for all the delicious heat of her mouth, and the feeling of her fingers circling the base of his cock where she can’t reach, it’s the fact that Brienne is doing it at all that’s going to send him over. She’s sitting on the bed next to him, fully clothed, and she’s asked _ nothing _of him. 

If Jaime reaches for her, she’ll bat his hands away again, so he locks them together behind his head against the pillows. Now, he just looks like he’s lying back waiting to be pleasured.

That’s...not a bad thought, so he says it aloud.

Brienne takes her mouth off him, which might be a blessing because Jaime’s about to embarrass himself by coming faster than a teenage boy. 

“You are _ insufferable_.”

“I know,” Jaime answers, “but I _ think _ you get off on it. Come here.”

Jaime tries not to shift when Brienne straddles him; the heat of her, and the friction from her leggings are doing wonderful, yet terrible things to his cock. He tugs off her shirt; she’s wearing a sports bra, as she often does at home.

“You know,” Jaime locates her nipple through the thin material, feels her react to his touch, “this doesn’t do you any favors.”

“It’s comfortable,” Brienne answers stubbornly, “and something tells me it’s not going to matter in a second.”

“Brilliant deductive reasoning.”

The sports bra is tighter than her shirt, but enough tugging frees Brienne from it. Jaime kisses her this time, pulling her closer so they’re flush against each other. Then, it’s a bit of a wrestling match. Brienne’s a glorious sight atop him, but Jaime can’t get her naked this way, so he flips them. She’s stronger than him, if she tries, if he _ asks_, but otherwise there’s a demureness to her when they tustle like this.

When Jaime’s above her, she hooks her fingers under the waistband of her leggings, peels them off, and kicks them to the floor much more gracefully than he had.

“See.”

“_Yes_,” Jaime replies, but he’s talking about her, splayed on the bed, every freckle visible. “Tell me something.”

“Like that if you make me wait any longer I’m going to fling you off the bed?”

“Ah,” he replies, smirking, “And what am I making you wait for?” 

Brienne has the patience to keep that balance, but Jaime lacks it utterly, too eager to touch her to reverse the game. Only the foresight of knowing nothing should touch his cock for a few minutes keeps him from diving into her. 

“Your cock,” she says, not stuttering at all; Brienne’s aroused blush is really, _ really _good.

“Did_ I _ teach you to talk like that?” Jaime doesn’t need to feel her to know she’s wet and eager, but he does it anyway, the lightest of touches.

“I learned by example--” Brienne gasps, squirms under his hand, “you’re quite verbose.”

“I _ am_."

Jaime _ feels _ \--so much that he can’t keep it to himself. She likes his narration; he never talked to Cersei like this. Brienne listens, _ gasps_, banters back with increasing frequency. She’s warm, a familiar place he wants to return to. She pulls him to her, wraps her legs around his back, generates that comforting feeling of being cared for that he wants to drown himself in. 

Slow thrusts are Jaime’s aim, but Brienne kisses him, pulls him closer, repeats his name in a breath that’s more moan. It’s futile-- he’s still unused to the lack of condom between them, the building within him can’t be stymied, made better and worse as Brienne clenches around him.

“T-trade me,” he stumbles, hopes to buy time.

Brienne flips them, which was a mistake on Jaime’s part. He likes to be hauled around, and now she’s above him again. He moves again, slowly, makes it last for a few more heartbeats.

“I love you.”

And _ that’s _ what does it; Brienne repeating those words, smiling down at him with her hand cradling his jaw. Jaime comes, grabs her and pulls her close while he rides it out. When he’s coherent again, Jaime runs a hand over the clammy skin of her back and says her name.

Brienne looks down at him, face inches away; he can tell by the furrow of her brow that she’s moved on to navigating cleanup--a pleasurable trade off that results in messy bed sheets.

“We need a towel,” she mumbles to herself.

Being messy with her is as fun as the rest of it, so Jaime laughs and says, “Let me.”

A furrowed brow is his answer, “Let you what?”

“A surprise,” he teases, sliding out of her and tapping her ass to get her to slide upward.

It’s precarious, and Jaime has a window of _ seconds _ before he’s wearing his mess, which would be a fitting punishment for his ambition. Brienne realizes, at the last second, Jaime’s aim, rewarding him with a delightfully shocked expression as he buries his face in her cunt.

“_Jaime!” _ Brienne yells, half-shock, half-pleasure. _ They heard that next door_, Jaime thinks, followed by _ hell yeah they did. _

She writhes against him, still sensitive from his cock, and Jaime sinks his fingers into the meat of her thighs to still her. It doesn’t taste _ good_, maybe better mixed with _ her_, but Jaime thought he could suffer it since he’d licked his hand clean on impulse last time. 

_ Brienne liked that, too_.

Knowing Brienne is shaking above him and probably has a white-knuckled grip on her headboard spurs him on. Her shifts in movement and panting breaths as he laps at her cunt make him half-hard again. Jaime adds a finger, focuses on her clit instead.

When Brienne comes, she utterly shatters, shaking and collapsing against him. And, as much as Jaime likes her strong thighs gripping him, he also likes breathing, so he pushes her back when he can’t get enough air.

“What was that!?”

Jaime laughs, reaches for the first piece of clothing he can find, which happens to be Brienne’s tank top, and wipes his face. _ Better than the whole bed, right? _

Brienne’s eyes, lovely as usual, are maybe the widest Jaime has ever seen them; she doesn't even mention the soiled tank top.

“It was fun,” Jaime knows he sounds fucking cheeky, “_you _ seemed to think so, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neither Jaime or Brienne strike me as the type to say "I love you" frequently or easily.


	13. Come into the Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"The only problem with this plan is that I won't get to witness the fruits of my labor," Tyrion crosses his arms and leans back into the chair._
> 
> _Which fucking sucks," Jaime agrees, mirrors Tyrion's expression as he rests his arms on the kitchen table chair he's turned backwards. "Neither of us can go."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably could've wrapped the narrative up in one more chapter, but I was committed to having an even number since the POV alternates between Jaime and Brienne.
> 
> So, this chapter has BONUS SMUT...outdoors! 🤷

"The only problem with this plan is that I won't get to witness the fruits of my labor," Tyrion crosses his arms and leans back into the chair.

"Which fucking sucks," Jaime agrees, mirrors Tyrion's expression as he rests his arms on the kitchen table chair he's turned backwards. "Neither of us can go."

Brienne covers her hand with her mouth to hide her smile. _ Brothers_. _ Did Tywin Lannister inspire that gesture? _

"Father would consider it a victory if you showed up," Tyrion continues.

"Wear _ that_, though," Margaery points at Jaime's jeans and t-shirt, "Walk right the fuck in, and see what he does."

Of all the people scattered in the chairs in their living room, Margaery looks the strangest. She's too manicured and stylish for their faded couch and skuffed chairs.

"And don't brush your hair," Sansa adds, laughing, "Crash the party like a hot mess."

Margaery holds out her hand, and Sansa gives her a high-five.

Danaerys sighs loud enough to interrupt everyone distracted by sowing the seeds of chaos at the Lannister fall gala.

"We need an actual, usable plan.”

"I liked how the plan was forming," Tyrion adds, "Jaime has a better chance of entering than I do. Or _ any _ of the rest of us, for that matter."

"Um," Brienne speaks for the first time in a few moments, "...Won't Margaery be there?"

"Finally, someone with _ sense_," Margaery pulls out her phone.

"We could put a spy cam on her!" Excitement makes Sansa raise her voice. "Hide it in her dress like in a movie."

"That has my vote," Jaime nods, "Ninety percent of the party will be boring as fuck, though."

Margaery is still waving her phone, "Can't I just post about it?"

"She _ does _have over a million followers," Danaerys holds up her own phone.

"A _ million?" _Jaime's eyes widen a bit, "But...what do you post?"

_Selfies. Designer handbags. Food. _

"Everything," Margaery says, haughty.

"I still don't get it," Jaime shakes his head.

"It's because you're old," Brienne says. 

Sansa looks affronted, "That's _ my _joke!"

Jaime's expression shifts rapidly, moves from an offended crease in his brows to a salacious smirk. Brienne knows she's doomed, whatever comes out of his mouth next will be mortifying.

"That's not what you said last night," Jaime's victorious grin is the same one he levels her with when he wrecks her with an orgasm and gloats for an hour. "_ Twice. _"

Sansa and Margaery dissolve into identical giggles; apparently, _ this _ is Brienne's life now. 

"I'll get you for that."

"_Gods,_” Jaime responds. "Please do. I want to see what you come up with."

"Brienne, stop while you're ahead," Tyrion suggests.

_"Anyway," _Danaerys clears her throat more emphatically. "We won't turn down the free publicity."

Margaery grins, "No one ever does. And don't worry, I'll get video."

* * *

Her father stays an extra week and shows no signs of departing. 

Brienne doesn't mind; when he sails away, it could be several months before he sails back into King's Landing.

"He just likes Jaime," Sansa tells her a few minutes before they leave for dinner. Selwyn insists on paying, although Jaime fights him on it sometimes. Brienne is fine with either because her food budget has been shot to hell by eating out every other night.

"You think so?"

"Duh," Sansa pauses near the front door, "Why do you think he's staying so long?"

"To see his daughter?" 

"Well, of course," Sansa smirks, "And to see her rich, although slightly less than before, snack of a boyfriend."

"I doubt Dad is thinking about how Jaime is a snack."

"No, he's thinking about filling his house with grandkids."

Brienne blushes, "I'm _ sure _ he didn't say that."

"But he _ did_," Sansa corrects, "We went out to lunch between my classes, and _ all _ Second Dad talked about was how much your mother would've liked Jaime, and that he'll stop sailing around and move to King’s Landing the _ second _ there's an inkling of babies."

_That's _the train of thought Brienne is left with when they meet Jaime on the landing. Brienne's mind drifts into dangerous territory, like how blonde their children would be, and that hopefully they won't inherit quite as many of her freckles. 

Jaime kisses her in greeting, probably just to make Sansa go _ ewwwww _ in an overly dramatic fashion. 

“You two are gross,” she wrinkles her nose, “And, _ ugh_, I helped make it a reality.”

They order a ride-share, not wanting to deal with the crowds, or the time, it would take to ride the bus.

"Where are we eating?" Brienne asks after they’ve been in the car for a few minutes.

"A Lysene place!" Sansa answers.

When they arrive, Selwyn shakes Jaime's hand before hugging Sansa and then Brienne.

"Have I been too over-protective?" Her father whispers the query into her ear during their hug. "I don't mean to scare Jaime away. I did grill him _ a bit _ the other day.”

"He'll live." She's never minded his involvement in her life--even as a child, her father knew just when to pry, and when to let her be. "And you're just looking out for me,"

"I learned how from your mother," Selwyn replies, holding Brienne at arm's length and kissing her the forehead; the gesture makes her feel like she’s a child again. "She'd be very proud of you."

"Thanks," Brienne gets a little misty-eyed.

Now, Selwyn smiles, "She'd like Jaime. I like him, too."

"... Because he brings you beer and listens to you talk about boats?"

"_Obviously._" 

The restaurant isn't _ too _ fancy, but Brienne wishes something could compel her father to wear clothes other than tropical shirts. What if they visited Winterfell with Sansa? Would her father put on closed-toed shoes to walk in a snow drift?

No, she’s pretty sure her father only has one mode. 

They crowd into a booth; Selwyn and Jaime on one side, and Brienne and Sansa across from them. Sansa orders wine because she’s the only one with enough knowledge to do so. The food is overly buttery and delicious. 

"I'm gonna get fat," Sansa says happily, taking another bite.

"And die happy," Jaime adds, "Although, someday all those milkshakes are going to appear on your body overnight. Maybe when you're thirty-five."

Sansa could eat her weight in chocolate and not gain a pound. Jaime must be similar given how much beer he pilfers from work; he always insists on jogging with Brienne, though.

“Nah,” Sansa shakes her head, “I think I’ll pass on that. And it hasn’t happened to you, yet.”

“I jog,” Jaime protests, “and don’t drink milkshakes daily.”

Selwyn gives a deep, booming laugh, “I don’t think that’s how time works, Sansa.”

Brienne watches her father and Jaime talk while they eat. They’ve spent time together without her, and it shows in the rapport they’ve developed. They’re talking about boats, which Jaime clearly knows _ nothing _ about, but is listening intently. She stops listening and just _ watches _; Jaime doesn’t seem nervous like he had they day he met her father; he looks comfortable, which means he’s charming, and Brienne is definitely staring. 

“You’re staring,” Sansa jabs her in the side with her finger hard enough that Brienne winces.

“Am not,” Brienne answers: Jaime’s contrariness has rubbed off on her.

“I _ told _you they get along,” Sansa whispers, “Give it a month, and he’ll be calling him ‘Dad,’ too. Or maybe Second Dad? How does that work if your first one is shitty to begin with?"

* * *

“You can drive a boat.”

“_Sail_,” Brienne corrects, “I grew up on an island with no bridge to the mainland. How do you think we left?”

“By boat, obviously.”

She huffs.

Jaime answers her with a blindingly perfect smile; Brienne is irritated until she turns the boat, and the shift in wind makes him eat a face full of golden hair.

“You did that on purpose!”

When her father asked if they wanted to borrow the boat while he visited some friends, Jaime looks so enthused that Brienne responded yes immediately. So, they’d waited until the next weekend, packed a cooler of food, and here they are. The summer in King’s Landing feels endless, and hoodie Brienne threw on over her swimsuit will be unneeded within an hour.

Maybe she’ll go swimming.

The last time they were on the boat, Sansa looked like a model in her sunhat and bikini; in contrast, Briene looks like she’s going to gym class in her blue one piece, the same one she’s had for half a decade. 

She takes them around the edge of the coast, until she’s far enough away from the city that the number of boats dwindles until they’re alone. King’s Landing is teeming with people, and while it means there’s always something to do, it also means there’s never quiet.

She turns off the motor, and drops the anchor.

“We’re stopping?”

Brienne nods, “It’s a good spot; I’m hungry.”

Jaime surveys the water--a seagull cries; the only other sound is the water lapping against the side of the boat. They sit on one of the benches lining the side of the boat and eat sandwiches. The bread went a bit soggy in the cooler, but Brienne is hungry enough that she doesn’t mind. 

“We’ve never done gone somewhere together like this.”

“We’re on a boat, an hour minutes from the coast. Does that count as _ somewhere?” _

Jaime looks out to where water meets sky, “It _ feels _ far away.”

Brienne chuckles, “A _ staycation_.”

“...A what?”

“A vacation where you stay at home,” Brienne explains, “Margaery said it once.”

“That’s...stupid.”

Now, Brienne outright laughs, “_ Extremely _stupid.”

They sit in silence, enjoying the view and the weather, for several minutes before Brienne says, “Want to go swimming?”

Jaime, relaxed before, perks up at the suggestion, “I’ve never seen you in a swimsuit before.”

“I’m not Sansa or Margaery.” 

Brienne feels Jaime’s gaze on her back; it makes her warmer than the late summer sun climbing in the sky. She unzips her hoodie and drops it on the bench without looking. Then, she climbs onto the edge of the boat and dives into the water.

Her entry is solid--the splash is small, and she cuts through the surface tension easily. The water is warmer than the air, and there’s a wonderful moment of silence before she surfaces. Brienne pushes her hair out of her face. When she looks up, Jaime is peering over the side of the boat, mouth agape.

“What?” she calls up to him, “I know I look like I’m going to gym class; it’s the only swimsuit I have.”

“What?” Jaime shakes his head, “I wasn’t expecting you to dive off the boat.”

“How else would you get in?”

Jaime pulls off his shirt and jumps into the water near her. It’s not quite a cannonball, but it’s certainly not one of his more graceful movements.

“Like that,” he answers.

“You might as well have done a belly flop.”

“I liked watching you dive.”

"Is this...like when I carried the table?"

He laughs, "It's _ exactly _ like that, only I'm not an idiot now."

"You were never an idiot."

Brienne floats on her back and closes her eyes against the sunlight, and _ whatever _ Jaime is going to say next. 

"I totally was," Jaime disagrees, "I'd never given a single thought to what _ I _ liked."

"And...it's me lifting things?" 

"It's you being confident," Jaime amends, "And displays of strength, maybe directed at me."

She hasn't been out long enough to have a sunburn, and she slathered on sunscreen, so that's not what’s making her cheeks burn. 

Jaime complained dramatically that he couldn't reach his back, so Brienne rubbed the cream in for him. His skin was warm, and it was _ utterly _ distracting. She's thinking of that, now. There's no distractions here--just her alone with her increasingly thirsty thoughts. 

"In _ Florian and Jonquil_," Jaime blurts a few minutes later, "they fuck in the lake."

"That scene is _ good_." Passionate and romantic, and makes her heart beat faster just thinking about. "No one gets arrested for public indecency in romance novels."

"Fair point," Jaime concedes, "but do you see anyone around?" 

"...At the moment."

"I _ think _ Florian likes the danger," Jaime's tone becomes honeyed; he's trying to seduce her, and he won't have to try very hard. 

"And Jonquil?" She knows she'll agree; Jaime ideas are ridiculous, but she rarely regrets them.

"Maybe some trepidation," Jaime lowers his voice, "but Florian convinces her."

"_Gods_, okay," Brienne opens her eyes and pushes herself off her back.

Jaime must be surprised because he gives a nervous laugh.

They climb into boat using the ladder; Jaime kisses her as soon as his feet hit the deck, leaning over the side and helping Brienne up. He tastes like the beer he'd been drinking with his sandwich and saltwater, an odd combination she doesn't mind. 

Better yet is the slide of wet skin. Brienne buries her fingers in the wet curls of Jaime's hair, holds him still and _ looks_. 

"What?" Jaime furrows his brow, certainly at the fact the kissing ceased. With his hair sticking to his shoulders and water glistening off his skin, he looks like something ethereal she dragged from the ocean. _ Damn him. _

"I'm just...looking at you." 

"Oh," Jaime brightens.

"Come here." 

He kisses her on the cheek, “As the lady wishes."

The benches along the side of the boat seem like a logical destination; Brienne doesn’t disentangle her hands from Jaime’s hair, kisses him once more as they make their way across the deck. She sits, grateful for something to support her because Jaime makes her weak-kneed.

Jaime pushes her wet hair back from where it’s plastered to her face, moves his mouth away from hers, beard tickling her skin the entire way, until his lips ghost over the shell of her ear. 

“I’ve never fucked outside before.” The explicitness makes her shudder. Frequently, Jaime will declare something like this--the newness of an experience, as though Brienne will be able to lend her expertise. 

Brienne never can; Jaime just likes saying things aloud.

“M-me either,” Brienne answers, almost a squeak, “The boat has a cabin--”

A breeze comes and makes her shiver, goosebumps appearing. Jaime trails his fingers down her arm, starting at the strap of her swimsuit at her shoulder, and ending at her elbow. 

“Fuck that,” Jaime moves again, more scrapping of his beard, now against the sensitive skin of her neck. “Pretty day, secluded; it’d be a _ crime _to go inside.”

“And _ maybe _one to remain outside.”

Jaime is still leaning over her, hair dripping on her legs and the fabric of the bench. A glance down reveals the outline of Jaime cock against his swim trunks.

Brienne puts her hand on Jaime’s hip at the border between swim trunks and skin. She has no goal, other than touching him, but Jaime takes it as an invitation to put one knee onto the seat and straddle her. He laughs at her expression; so Brienne, spitefully, wraps an arm around him and tugs him against her. Jaime shifts, tests the position with a curious expression on his face, and ends with reaching to touch Brienne’s breast through her swimsuit. The way the wet fabric slides against her skin sends a spike of pleasure through her. Jaime repeats it until Brienne gives him a breathy sigh that makes him press closer to her, seeking the same friction for his cock trapped between them.

When he slides his finger under the strap of her swimsuit, Brienne takes it as a question. She nods her answer, lets Jaime peel the wet fabric down until she has to dislodge her arms from his waist to put them free of the straps.

She pushes herself off the backrest to allow Jaime to finish the job. Then, Brienne’s _ blushing _ because she’s half-naked and wet on a sailboat in the noonday sun, and Jaime Lannister _ sitting on her lap_.

She opens her eyes--apparently she’d closed them at some point. Jaime’s _ so close_, insufferable and charming and familiar. He rocks against her again, tightens his legs around hers. Then, he drops his head to her shoulder and follows with his mouth where his hands had been.

_This _is something that romance novels never capture--the passion found in the fact that they know each other.

“Brienne.”

“What?”

“You’re salty,” he says into her collarbone.

“So are you.”

He hums, and Brienne touches his hair; it’s starting to dry a bit, salt-coated and curling around his temples. “Am I heavy?”

“No,” Brienne answers honestly; she’s strong enough to hold him; she likes that Jaime wants that. “I don’t think we can--_um_, like this.”

Jaime laughs, puts a hand on her waist as far south as the position allows. She just _ wants_, feels alight where they’re touching.

“Unfortunately,” Jaime agrees; Brienne mourns the loss when he moves away from her. He looks thoughtful for a moment before he says, “Turn around?”

Unlike the first time, Brienne _ doesn’t _ assume Jaime’s doesn’t want to see her. She rises, rests her knee on the bench, and looks back at him. He smiles at her before pushing her hair to the side and kissing the nape of her neck, making Brienne shiver. He reaches an arm around her and cups her breast. Brienne feels his cock at her back, and _ waits_.

He moves his hand, slides it under the front of her swimsuit where it’s pushed about her waist. Brienne holds her breath with he reaches her entrance, dips into the wetness that _ definitely _ isn’t ocean water. He circles her clit, _ doesn’t _ enter her, chuckles when Brienne makes a frustrated noise.

“_Tease_,” she looks out at the water, tries not to react; it doesn’t work.

“Preparation.” He moves away, and when he reaches for her a second time, it’s to push her swimsuit aside. “For when we have to make a quick getaway.”

“R-right.”

When Jaime enters her, one swift movement, Brienne grips the railing of the boat so tightly her knuckles turn white. She shifts, lowers her front to improve the angle, after Jaime’s second thrust. It works; Jaime hits a spot that makes her feel dizzy. There’s nothing impersonal about it, not when Jaime kisses her neck, or her shoulder blades, not when he reaches in front to circle her clit again, not when he whispers her name.

“No one’s here,” Jaime tells her, breath hot against her ear, “you don’t have to quiet yourself.”

A contrary part of her wants to reply _ I’m not_, but he pushes, harder than before, and Brienne acquiesces. The noise that leaves her feels like it echoes across the water and back to King’s Landing.

“_Good_. No hiding.”

Jaime knows where Brienne wants to go, and how to get her there. Then, when she wants her release so badly that she’s reaching for the hand he’s rested on her abdomen, Jaime stops moving.

She says his name, a question.

“I want to see you,” he answers, needier than she often hears.

“Okay,” she answers because who could deny him that?

Jaime pulls out, and Brienne turns around, sits on the bench and spreads her knees to welcome him into her. The absence of him is acute, and Jaime must feel it, too, because he bends his knees the bit that’s needed to get to her, and tugs her to the edge of the bench until he can move the fabric of her swimsuit aside to enter her once more.

“Better,” he says, leaning down and kissing her, languid to match the pace of his thrusts. 

The pleasure in Brienne has dimmed a bit, but she’s happy to let Jaime stoke the flames again. It doesn’t take long until she’s grasping his hand and resting her forehead against his. She wraps a leg around Jaime’s waist, holds him into her as she comes.

“_Gods,_” Jaime gasps, “Brienne, I could watch you--”

And it’s too much, _ he’s _ too much, so she interrupts, says, “Me too” in the same breathless tone. 

Within a few thrusts, Jaime’s followed her over the edge, spilling into her. He’s as close as another person can get; she wraps her arms around his neck.

“Good?” he whispers.

“Yeah.”

“And _ daring._”

Brienne’s swimsuit feels unwearable, now, so she goes to the cabin and changes into the clothes she bought. It’s not _ exactly _ the application of them she was thinking. Maybe it’s time for a new swimsuit, too.

Jaime has her hoodie on when she emerges, and he’s already opened two beers. She takes one and sits next to him, as close as she likes because he wants it, too. She’ll need to reapply sunscreen soon, but it can wait.

“You know,” she takes a drink, “we can never, _ ever _ tell anyone about this.”

* * *

Everyone gathers in Brienne and Sansa's apartment on the evening of Tywin Lannister's gala. 

"We're like people who party next door to the real party because they didn't get invites," Tyrion says.

"Who make an even _ better _ party," Sansa interjects. "There's pizza, and I don't have to wear real pants."

"This has my vote," Arya agrees, "but I thought you liked dressing up, Sansa."

"I do, but it needs to be for something _ fun. _"

It's certainly the kind of get-together Brienne prefers; informal, and with people she genuinely _ likes. _

"I never wanted to actually _be_ at the gala before," Jaime muses. "Last time I went, I'd have given a hand to get the fuck out of there."

"Father's reaction won't be as delightful secondhand," Tyrion agrees. "But pizza and beer soothe the ache."

And it's a weird evening because they're huddled around their smartphones waiting for updates from Margaery and Daenerys.

"We're like an example of what Old Nan says about kids and their phones," Arya doesn't look up from her screen as she says it.

"You're ruining the future," Jaime agrees, "No social skills." He's the only one not looking at his phone. Instead, he's molded himself to Brienne, looking at her phone with a plate of pizza in his lap.

"You're so _ old_," Sansa says dramatically, "You aren't even using your own phone."

"Not that I have a social media presence,* Brienne looks up, "I just lurk."

They eat, and drink, and _ wait_. Jaime and Tyrion look positively _ giddy_. When the pizza is cold, and the growlers are half-emptied, Sansa and Tyrion let out simultaneous peals of laughter.

"Dany posted it!" Sansa says. Brienne wonders when they got on a nickname basis.

"She did," Tyrion agrees, "Now I'm _ known_.”

Brienne refreshes her own feed, sees the post duplicated from Daenerys and Tyrion's publishing company.

"I think Margeary's gonna walk up to Tywin and show him," Sansa laughs.

"_Oh no_," Jaime stage-whispers.

As planned, Daenerys leaked the information to a few semi-reputable news outlets over the past few days.

Arya connects her phone to the television and reads the press release aloud, ending with, "This is fucking _ amazing_."

"That's my face," Tyrion says; Brienne can't tell from his tone how he feels about it.

They all stare at the television for a few seconds.

"Margaery won't take long," Sansa looks _ extremely _ excited. "Refresh it, Arya."

"Don't boss me," she bites back; Sansa sticks out her tongue in retort. Arya does it, though, and video from Margaery appears.

"Oh, gods," Jaime says, "this is going to be _ painful_."

Arya taps her screen, and the video begins. Margaery, in a sea-green gown that shows more than it hides, waves at the camera.

"Hi darlings! I'm at the Lannister annual fall gala, and it's _ just _ been revealed that Tyrion Lannister is the author of the best-selling romance novel _ Florian and Jonquil_, and that he's releasing a new book under his own name! Let's go ask Tywin Lannister what he thinks."

Brienne glances to Jaime and Tyrion, who've both paled considerably. When Margaery interrupts Tywin's conversation to ask the question, he looks dead into the camera, jaw clenched so tightly that Brienne's surprised he's able to grind out, "No comment."

"He's fucking _ pissed_," Tyrion shouts, reaches up to give Jaime a high-five

"He didn't looked that mad when I walked out!" 

Then, the two of them laugh so hard that Brienne has to pass them a box of tissues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, for all the lovely reviews! I can't believe there's only one chapter left.


	14. One Good Movie Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s two days after Tyrion’s book reveal when Jaime’s phone buzzes from where it rests on the couch cushion next to him._
> 
> I’m coming to see you.
> 
> _The number is an unknown one, but Jaime has no illusions about who the text originates from._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's the last chapter! 😭 Time to say goodbye to the fic that lasted five times as long as I intended. Thank you to everyone who's been reading!
> 
> The last chapter title, like the fic itself, comes from Mitski's song "Nobody."

It’s two days after Tyrion’s book reveal when Jaime’s phone buzzes from where it rests on the couch cushion next to him.

_ I’m coming to see you. _

The number is an unknown one, but Jaime has no illusions about who the text originates from. _ Cersei_. He stares at the screen long enough that it goes black, and Sansa, on the other end of the couch, notices and leans toward him.

“Something exciting in your phone?”

Jaime tenses, “I don’t want to hear that from _ you_; your phone is glued to your hand.”

“Yeah, but I don’t look at it like I’ve seen a ghost.” 

“It’s nothing.”

She taps her phone screen to pause the television; they’d been watching a Dornish reality show Sansa insisted was addicting. Jaime wouldn’t dare admit it, but the fucked up melodrama playing out on the screen _ was _ strangely compelling. It could _ almost _ convince him the Lannisters were normal.

Well, until his phone buzzed and shattered the illusion.

“Jaime,” Sansa says his name like he’s a child she’s scolding, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

And the thing is, Jaime _ does_. Sansa is the only other person he can imagine telling, and he’s _ terrified _ she’ll think he’s disgusting for spending so long fucking his twin sister. 

“It’s...my ex,” he hears himself say--there’s no name attached to the text, so it’s less of a risk.

“Ew,” Sansa replies immediately, “what does she want?”

“...She says she’s coming to see me.”

“Like here?”

“Maybe? She came to work, once.”

Sansa leans closer to Jaime and waves a finger in his face, “That’s not cool. Has she texted you before?”

“I blocked her, but getting a new number isn’t hard. She’s really--she has resources.”

“That’s stalker shit,” Sansa scowls, “Have you ever responded?”

Jaime shakes his head, “Tyrion suggested I not.”

“Wanna tell her something weird? Like to throw her off?”

Jaime rolls the idea around in his head; if Cersei is going to show up at his door, responding or not responding won’t matter. His sister will, as always, do what she wants. Their history is safe, too--she won’t out it, there’s too much at risk for her.

“...Like what?”

Sansa grins, wicked, “Do you trust me?” 

“Of course.” And it comes out more sentimental than Jaime means, but Sansa is part of the reason Jaime’s doing so well. “You haven’t steered me wrong so far.”

He picks up his phone, types in the passcode, and hands it to Sansa.

“I’ll show you first,” she says before beginning to type furiously.

_ No thanks. Too busy having a girl’s night marathoning The Real Housewives of Dorne and drinking wine. _ Sansa follows it with a string of emoji that don’t convey _ any _ meaning to Jaime, including a martini glass, some confetti, and a thumbs up.

“What...the fuck?”

“You wanna throw her off, right? What does she expect from you?”

Jaime pauses, glances away. “Obedience,” he finally answers.

“And you’re not gonna give her that.”

“No,” Jaime replies, “I’m...not like that any more.”

“Then tap send, and imagine her face when she reads it.”

Jaime does, but when Sansa hits play on the show again, he’s too engrossed in _ other _ people ruining their lives to care if Cersei responds.

* * *

"I have a proposition for you."

Jaime's drying glasses when Bronn says it; it's a weeknight, near close, and Blackwater has _ maybe _ three patrons in the entire space. 

"I'm not picking up women for you," Jaime replies automatically. Bronn's been complaining for weeks that Jaime's recurring female patrons have dwindled. "Get better at it yourself if you think the well has dried up."

Bronn barks out a laugh, "You're not even _ good_, you cunt." 

"Like you would know," Jaime sounds intentionally haughty. 

"I wouldn't," Bronn answers, "and Brienne won't kiss and tell."

"Well, I'm not fucking you, so you'll never know."

Bronn laughs again, loud enough to echo in the empty space. "You're such a cunt. I wasn't talking about fucking."

"Sorry for assuming, given how little else you seem to think about. Did you start this business to pick up women?"

"_Obviously_."

Bronn's expression turns to a semi-serious one Jaime rarely sees. He's only seen Bronn angry a handful of times, and never directed at him. Bronn wouldn't intimidate _ him, _ but it definitely worked on his infant co-workers.

"I have a non-sexual proposition for you," Bronn repeats.

"Shoot."

Bronn leans against the bar, "I want to open a second location. Revenue's good enough to do it."

"Congrats," Jaime replies, unsure of the connection to him.

His confusion must show because Bronn shakes his head in a way that clearly indicates he thinks Jaime is an idiot. "You're _ really _thick sometimes, you know that?"

"I've been told."

"This second location will need a manager," Bronn continues, "and _ you're _ the rich cunt I want for the job."

The gears in Jaime's brain screech to a full-stop. "_ Me?" _he echoes.

"Are you a fucking parrot?" Yes, _ you_."

"Why?"

"Because you're a competent adult, you haven't burned this place down, and everyone likes you."

_ Is that all it takes? _

Jaime realizes, that sometime in the last year and a half, he began to _ feel _ competent. Staring at Tyrion's ceiling, wondering if life could hold _ anything _ for him, felt so long ago. Life holds so _ many _ things for him, now--Brienne, Sansa's friendship, finding new ways to spite their father with Tyrion. Even the fact that a cunt like Bronn finds him trustworthy enough to be in charge of something. 

They're all things he's earned.

"I'll do it," and he's amazed at the steadiness in him. "I already have been, haven't I? All the nights where you fuck off to _ wherever _ you go."

"That's what I thought," Bronn holds out his hand, and Jaime shakes it, "I definitely don't think about people breaking glasses or shortchanging the till."

Now, Jaime laughs, "You'll miss my crowd, though, diminished as it is."

* * *

Jon Snow _ finally _ convinces Brienne to play some tabletop game called _ Night’s Watch _ that he’s apparently been talking about for months. Jaime’s never heard of it, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad, it just means that he’s not a nerd.

“He wouldn’t stop talking about it,” Brienne whispers to him when she lets Jon into her apartment. He goes to the kitchen table and immediately begins pulling items out of his backpack. “It’s probably going to be boring,” she continues, even quieter.

“It might be fun,” Jaime shrugs, “It wouldn’t be the first time in the last year that something has surprised me.”

Brienne and Sansa _ really _don’t have the room to support as many people as are crammed around their kitchen table. Jon brings Sam, his roommate. Sansa invites Arya and, from that, she invites Gendry.

“We don’t have enough chairs,” Sansa says, sounding a bit panicked.

Jaime goes next door to contributes his own chairs, but he only has three, which still leaves them shy. 

“I can share,” Arya calls out, before plopping herself in Gendry’s lap.

Sansa’s pulling drinks and food out of the fridge, and she looks at them, “Ew, get a room, you two.”

“We could use yours; it’s probably a better use of time than this dorky game.”

“I think it sounds fun,” Gendry interjects, but Arya definitely isn’t listening.

“You are _ not _ defiling my sheets!”

“We’re still short a chair,” Jaime leans closer to Brienne, “you could sit on my--”

“_No_.”

“Or, I could sit on your--”

Brienne pauses like she’s considering it, but after a beat she repeats, “...No.”

She ends up leaning against the counter, arms crossed, while Jon explains the rules. They use pre-made characters because Jon apparently has the good sense not to let a group of people who’ve never played spend the entire knight deciding who’s going to be at axe-wielding wildling, or who’s going to ride a dragon.

Jaime _ thinks _ he gets the rules, but it doesn’t matter because after an hour and a round of beer, the rules start to dissolve. 

“Y-you’re not supposed to do that--” Sam tries to interject when Arya breaks some rule that Jaime missed.

“Who _ cares? _” Arya yells loud enough that Gendry winces.

“Arya--”

“If I want to become an assassin, why can’t I?”

“For someone who thought this was nerdy, you’re certainly into it,” says Jon. Unlike Sam, he seems to have abandoned the rules for the most part, focusing instead of herding a group of increasingly-drunk twenty-somethings through a plot involving fighting zombies and dudes made of ice.

Brienne stands at first, until Jaime moves to the edge of the chair and forces her to share with him. They don't really fit--half his ass is sliding off the chair; it's only going to get more uncomfortable as the evening progresses.

"Look how comfortable Arya looks," Jaime keeps his tone conversational.

"Very comfortable," Brienne agrees.

Arya _ does _ look happy--Gendry has an arm around her waist, and she's holding a beer and yelling at Jon. 

It takes twenty more minutes, but Jaime is patient. 

_ "Fine_," she looks irritated, "you'll change your mind in ten minutes when your leg falls asleep."

Jaime doesn't think he will, and nearly remarks on the many, significantly more illicit instances of Brienne in his lap. Her cheeks redden, and Jaime fights back a second urge to pull her closer.

The game isn't bad; although Sansa and Arya's sibling rivalry comes to the surface while Jon tries to mitigate and steer the storyline with less and less success. Sam, who clearly is a stickler for rules, gets more agitated by the minute, until Jon pats him on the shoulder out of sympathy.

"Just be happy they're enjoying themselves, man."

Sam opens his mouth to protest, but closes it again before uttering a syllable.

Jaime loses track of time trying to follow the narrative. For children, they're all fine company--better than any evening spent in the company of his own family.

It must be close to nine when there's a knock on the landing, not on Brienne's door, but on _ his. _ Jaime's lived here long enough that he knows the sound. A cold wave of dread washes over him--only Tyrion knows where he lives, and he was traveling, or he'd be there, playing this ridiculous game.

That means it's Cersei.

Before Jaime can intercept, Arya shouts, in a loudness that only an inebriated person would think is appropriate, "I'll get it!"

Jaime watches Arya hop off Gendry's lap and bound to the door, helpless. What kind of scene will he make if he tries to get to the door before her?

Arya pulls open the door, and pokes her head out to the landing, "Oi," she says, "We're over here. _ You _look like Jaime!"

Brienne _ looks _ at him, but there's nothing to be done; Cersei appears in Brienne's doorway. Between Sansa’s _ extremely _fanciful text message, and the fact that Tyrion’s name spread across social media platforms like wildfire, Jaime isn’t too shocked to see her.

As usual, Cersei looks _ ridiculously _ out of place. She's wearing jeans with heels and a blouse, and every detail, from her nails to her eyeliner, is _ perfect_.

Brienne moves, and Jaime lets her--Cersei is his problem, and the closer Brienne is, the more she'll bear the brunt of _ whatever _ his sister is going to say. 

"Jaime," she says when she's surveyed the room, and realized he's playing a game with a group of people_ at least _ a decade younger than him. "Really?"

"Why are you here?" He stands, stuffing his hands in his jeans pockets. 

"Your text," she hasn't taken a step past the threshold. "I was concerned."

Jaime laughs because what the hell else can he do? "I'm good," he manages to tell her.

“You’re playing a board game...with children.”

Sam raises his hand in protests, “It’s actually a tabletop roleplaying game. It’s not for children; the rules are quite complex--”

"Do you wanna play?" Jon interrupts. "The plot is fucked anyways; we can write you in."

Cersei looks past Jaime with a raised eyebrow at the table littered with beer bottles and game paraphernalia, "No."

"Good," Jaime replies, "You can leave now."

"Is that anyway to speak to your sister?" Now, her tone is honeyed, meant to draw Jaime in.

_ Did this really used to work on me? _

"It's the way you talk to someone who you want to leave." Jaime is going to ruin the evening and out himself, but he's not going to listen to her.

"I assume you were part of Tyrion's little venture, too."

"I only encouraged him to do what he wanted."

"Disgraceful.”

Jaime tries to ignore the fact that everyone is watching them--he _ particularly _doesn't want to look at Sansa. "Well, you can monopolize Father's attention all you want now."

"You should leave." It's Sansa who interrupts them, standing. "If Jaime doesn't want you here, then you should get out of my apartment." 

"Ah," Cersei replies, "A brave little dove." She turns to Jaime, "This is my last attempt; when you change your mind, I won't be waiting."

_ She still thinks I will. _

"I won't," Jaime isn't even tempted; it's _ wonderful. _

Cersei leaves, and the miasma over the room dissipates, but Jaime feels awkward enough to fall into silence. 

"Man," Sam is the first to speak, "don't we all have a family member like _ that_?"

"Yep," Sansa replies, "Let's keep playing."

It's not until the game is winding down, and Sansa is handing him bottles to rinse out for recycling that she leans in and whispers, "She's the ex, isn't she?" 

Jaime nods minutely, a lump in his throat.

"Holy _ shit_," Sansa whispers back, "I am gonna need _ a lot _ more booze when you tell me the rest of that story."

* * *

It’s not alcohol, but a pot of coffee strong enough to punch Jaime’s hangover away that becomes the starter for explanation he promised Sansa. There’s also four slices of plain, buttered toast and two glasses of water.

Brienne went to work, on time, because she’s a _ machine_. Jaime is blessedly grateful he’s not due at work until the evening. 

Sansa’s hair is pulled up in the messied blob atop her head that Jaime’s witnessed. She’s resting her head on her hand when she says, “I didn’t drunken hallucinate last night, right? Cersei Lannister came to our door?”

Jaime nods, and dumps more creamer in his coffee, “Unfortunately, no.”

“And I didn’t imagine how fucking creepy she was toward you?”

A third sugar packet goes into the coffee, “No, that was pretty on-brand for her. Mild, even, because she didn’t want to expose the...truth.”

Sansa takes two bites of toast and appears to regret it; Jaime hopes it’s not his fault. “Your ex is your sister.”

“...Yes.”

“And all the stuff you told me,” Sansa continues, “About how she treated you?”

“All true,” Jaime replies, “and some things I left out, too.” He drinks his water too quickly in a fit of nerves.

“Screw the drama on _ Real Housewives of Dorne_, this is _ insane_.”

“I’m sorry; I feel like I abused your help because I didn’t tell you.”

She shakes her head, and wispy strands of hair fall from her bun, “Jaime, you need a _ real _ therapist. This crazy shit is above my paygrade.”

He smiles a bit, “But you’ve been so helpful.”

“Yeah, but without the facts. I _ can’t even _\--you told me you were a teenager when it started.”

The headache, which had abated some, returns in full force. “She suggested it, and we’d always been together. I didn’t even consider how wrong it was, at the time.”

Sansa is still looking at him in disbelief, “This explains _ so _much. I wondered why you were such a disaster with Brienne. Even with only one long-term relationship, it didn’t explain your entire...you-ness.”

His answer is a surly, “Thanks.”

“It’s...kinda gross,” Sansa waves a finger at him, “but I’m glad I know. You make a lot more sense now.”

“A lot of me is her,” the words come slowly, “which is hard to accept, but I’m my experiences, right?” Cersei’s influence will probably always leave its mark; there’s no way to undo a lifetime of co-dependence.

“We are, but isn’t how we learn from them just as important?”

“Reflection. It’s _ exhausting_.”

To Jaime’s surprise, Sansa stands, rounds the table, and pulls him into a tight hug. She releases him a moment later and holds out her hand. Jaime gets the signal, and lets Sansa give him a high five. 

“A snack with a brain; it’s what every woman wants.”

* * *

When Jaime emerges from his bathroom, Brienne’s sitting on his couch, a book in her lap, and her phone resting on the book. 

“You told her.”

“Sansa?”

She nods, “Well, I suppose ‘she figured it out’ might be more accurate; you _ confirmed _it.”

Jaime gives an awkward laugh, “You mean Cersei busting in on our game of _ Night’s Watch _ didn’t make it clear enough?”

“I don’t think anyone else would make the connection; they probably just thought she was…”

“...Controlling,” Jaime finishes, glad for Brienne’s assessment that it wasn’t _ too _ obvious. He’s always feared, even before he ended things with Cersei, that being near her in public would be akin to a flashing sign above his head that said _ I fuck my sister. _

“Don’t worry about it.” 

“Okay.” Because Brienne said so, Jaime believes it. He walks to the couch, gripping the towel around his waist, before flopping down next to Brienne.

“Are you--” she starts, and Jaime knows immediately, and _ fondly_, that she is going to scold him. “Are you using _ three _towels?”

"I know your mock-offense when I hear it," Jaime grins at her, "I can put one back; you wanna pick which one?"

In addition to the one adorning his head, there's one around his shoulders and another around his waist. _ That's _ that one that slips dangerously when Jaime sits. _ That _ one has Brienne watching him out of the corner of her eye. It's nice to see that weeks of regularly being naked in Jaime's presence has done _ nothing _ for her incessant blushing. He sort of hopes that never changes.

Brienne knows which one Jaime _ wants _ her to pick, so she spitefully rips the towel off his head.

Jaime yelps as his hair falls around his shoulders in damp, golden tendrils. “Do you know how long it took to get that to stay on?”

Brienne finds a relatively dry spot on the towel, and rubs it against Jaime’s hair; it means moving closer to him on the couch. Any lingering irritation over Cersei is washed away by Brienne’s attention. She’s close, leg pressed against his, and Jaime tilts into the contact.

“You’re like a cat.”

Jaime laughs, “Remember when you joked about getting me a litter box?”

It feels both like yesterday, and like a lifetime ago.

Brienne answers his laugh with one of her own, then lets the towel drop into Jaime’s lap. “I _ do_; it was right before we mortified each other by comparing our feelings to passages from _ Florian and Jonquil_.”

Jaime is content, overjoyed even, when Brienne leans over and kisses him, to reenact scenes from any romance novel she chooses, for as long as she likes.

* * *

When Tyrion returns from _ wherever _ Daenerys sent him, Jaime shows up at his door with a bottle of brandy that far exceeds his liquor budget.

“That’s good shit,” his brother says in lieu of a greeting, “Is this my reward for housing you all those months?”

“A Lannister always pays his debts.”

“_Gods. _Don’t fucking say that; you sound like Father.”

“It was a joke, Tyrion,” Jaime answers, “And you _ know _ Father never jokes.”

“I heard our sweet sister visited you,” Tyrion tells him as he retrieves two snifters from his cabinet. 

“Did Sansa tell _ you_, too?”

“She did.”

Jaime opens the bottle, and pours the amber liquid into both glasses. Then, he sits on Tyrion’s familiar, comfortable couch, and they drink in a companionable silence for a few moments.

“We’re disappointments,” Tyrion breaks the silence, “to Father, and Cersei. How is it treating you, after all these months?”

“It’s fucking awesome,” Jaime answers, and means it, “Disappointing them means being happy with myself. Once I accepted that, it was much easier.”

“It’s like a weight is lifted.”

“What should be toast to, then?”

“To the founding of the misfit, disappointment Lannister club. The membership is capped at two, but we’re _ very _active,” Tyrion holds his glass aloft.

Jaime can raise a fucking glass to that, so he does.


End file.
